Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better: Dealing with the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement in Canada 9783839439180

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Anne-Marie Reynaud Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better

EmotionsKulturen / EmotionCultures | Band / Volume 4

Die Reihe EmotionsKulturen / EmotionCultures versammelt Arbeiten, die sich aktuellen Fragestellungen der Emotionsforschung aus einer innovativen transdisziplinären Perspektive annähern. Im Mittelpunkt stehen vornehmlich empirische Studien aus dem Bereich der Sozial-und Kulturanthropologie, die – in jeweils enger theoretischer und/oder methodischer Verzahnung mit weiteren Disziplinen – Prozesse der sozialen und kulturellen Modellierung von Emotionen und Affekten untersuchen. Zentrale Themenspektren betreffen die Genese emotionaler Ordnungen in ihrem Wechselspiel mit sozio-kulturellen, historischen und politischen Strukturen. Die Reihe spannt dabei den Bogen von der Sozialisation von Emotionen in der Kindheit bis zu deren Transformation im Alter und schließt damit auch konfliktive Rekonfigurationen des Emotionalen vor dem Hintergrund veränderlicher Lebensbedingungen mit ein. Ein besonderer Schwerpunkt liegt auf den mit Migrations-, Globalisierungs- und Transnationalisierungsprozessen verbundenen emotionalen und affektiven Dynamiken.

The series EmotionCultures is a collection of works centered around current questions raised in interdisciplinary and innovative research on emotions. At the core are empirical studies from Social and Cultural Anthropology that analyze processes of social and cultural modeling of emotions – always in close theoretical as well as methodological connection to various other disciplines. Key topics concern the generation of emotional codes in interaction with socio-cultural, historical, and political structures. Thus, this series ranges from the socialization of emotions in childhood to their transformation with increasing age. It incorporates reconfigurations of emotions against the backdrop of changing life conditions. Furthermore, a particular focus rests upon the emotional dynamics inherent to processes of migration, globalization, and transnationalization.

Die Reihe wird herausgegeben von/is edited by Birgitt Röttger-Rössler & Anita von Poser. Editorial Board: Prof. Dr. Helene Basu, Ethnologie, Universität Münster Prof. Dr. Dr. Thomas Fuchs, Psychiatrie & Philosophie, Universität Heidelberg Prof. Dr. Douglas Hollan, Social Anthropology, UCLA Prof. Dr. Heidi Keller, Psychologie, Universität Osnabrück Prof. Dr. Christian von Scheve, Soziologie, FU Berlin Dr. Maruška Svašek, Social Anthropology, Queens University Belfast

Anne-Marie Reynaud completed her doctorate in Anthropology at the Freie Universität Berlin in cotutelle with the Université de Montréal. Her research interests include visual anthropology, Indigenous Peoples, emotions and transitional justice.

Anne-Marie Reynaud

Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better Dealing with the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement in Canada

This study was made possible thanks to the kind support of the DFG/Cluster of Excellence “Languages of Emotion”, Freie Universität Berlin.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de © 2017 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover layout: Kordula Röckenhaus, Bielefeld Cover illustration: Window pane in church ruin, Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2006 Typeset by Justine Buri, Bielefeld Printed by Majuskel Medienproduktion GmbH, Wetzlar Print-ISBN 978-3-8376-3918-6 PDF-ISBN 978-3-8394-3918-0

Contents

Preface  | 9 Note on Transcription  | 11 Note on Terminology  | 13 Introduction: Settlement and Reconciliation  | 17

Chapter 1 Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives | 41

Chapter 2 Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir | 65

Chapter 3 On being the right way in the Field | 91

Chapter 4 Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present | 111

Chapter 5 Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions | 137

Chapter 6 Remembering Residential School: Survivor Perspectives | 163

Chapter 7 “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations | 193

Chapter 8 At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions | 223

Chapter 9 “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush | 247

Epilogue  | 279 Appendix  | 301 List of Acronyms List of Figures Glossary

Bibliography  | 305

Preface The photograph on the book cover speaks to some of the pain that the memory process has awakened for survivors during the years of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement. It also shows their resilience. It is a picture of a broken floor tile thrown into what was once the window of an Indian Residential School church. I took this picture in 2006, on a day that was decisive for the writing of this book: it was the first time I heard directly from a survivor what had happened to him in residential school and what the proposed settlement meant for him. It was the day I realised that perspectives like his need to be heard. The ruins of this school have since been destroyed, but the brokenness and the strength that converge in this photograph are still there, palpable in the air and in the stories that survivors have shared. This book is the result of my doctoral thesis in Anthropology, completed in January 2016. The first three chapters are for the theory-interested reader as they provide the bedrock to how concepts of emotions, memory and trauma are relevant to the study of transitional justice and reconciliation. The general interest reader might want to start directly with chapter four and find out how this interdisciplinary approach is put to use in the field, beginning with an exploration of the early childhood memories of residential school survivors. My hope is that general interest readers will read through the six empirical chapters and want to return to the first chapters in order to better understand the theoretical thread that connects the book as a whole. I trust that both readers will not miss the signs of agency and healing that this book also uncovers in its journey through the difficult topic of emotions and remembering in dealing with the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement. Writing this book would not have been possible without the participation, knowledge, support and help of many people over the past years: My greatest thanks goes to all the Mitchikanibikok Inik community members who placed their trust in me and shared their stories. I have learned so much from you and for this I will always be grateful. Chi-meegwetch to all of you for your time, your kindness and your friendships. Thank you for welcoming me and my family onto your land, into your homes, your offices and your lives. Due to confidentiality reasons, I regretfully cannot name you personally, but a special

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thanks goes to those of you who shared memories, sometimes very painful. Thank you for taking the risk to embark on this project in order to have your perspectives heard. Likewise, I wish to express my gratitude to the Canadian, Québécois and other participants who were willing to share their diverse experiences and opinions with me. Working with you enabled me to put things into perspectives in ways that otherwise would not have been possible. As part of an academic endeavour, my research benefitted from the guidance and support of several scholars whom I would like to thank: Birgitt Röttger-Rössler, Marie-Pierre Bousquet, Sina Emde, Victoria Kumala Sakti, Cynthia Milton, Anne Andermann, Roxana Paniagua and Dietlind Stolle. My writing is indebted to the sharp eyes of three wonderful women: Susan Murwin, Tricia Reynaud and Molly Pope. I cannot thank you enough for your editing work. Thanks also to others who supported this book in various ways: Max Wilhelm and StarLynn Jacobs for transcriptions, Christian Artuso for linguistic tips, Frederic Reynaud for fieldwork assistance (among other things), and Delphine Arnaud for article searching and your encouragement. Indeed this book would not have been possible without the hospitality and support of my friends and family in Germany, France and Canada. To all the Reynauds and the Zieglers: Thank you. A special thanks to my late Gram for her generosity. Finally, there are no words to thank my children Aljoscha and Abigail for their patience and for constantly reminding me that the path to mino madiziwin is not in front of a computer screen. And, above all, my most heartfelt gratitude goes to Rafael Ziegler, without whom this book would simply not exist. If there is one person I have been able to count on from the conception of this project to its final editing, it is you. For all you have done, from spending our family holidays doing my fieldwork to the countless hours you poured over my writings: thank you.

Note on Transcription Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin is the Algonquin dialect spoken by the Mitchikanibikok Inik. It is an oral language and though there have been projects to create a lexicon with a systematic or phonemic writing system, these have not been realised and there are therefore many orthographic styles in simultaneous use in the community (Artuso, personal communication February 15th 2014). When asked to write things down, most participants wrote as phonetically as possible and this has made it complicated to systemise the orthography of words used in this book. There are several linguistic systems that have been applied to Algonquin dialects, which are themselves categorised in different groupings as there are considerable vocabulary differences between, for instance, the Algonquin dialect spoken in Kitigan Zibi (often referred to by French scholars as “Algonquin du Sud”: Southern Algonquin) and the one spoken in Kitiganik by the Mitchikanibikok Inik (referred to as “Algonquin du Nord”: Northern Algonquin). There exist several Algonquin lexicons, however none are a perfect match for Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin (in the literature also often referred to more generally as Anishinaabemowin). Ernest McGregor’s 1994 dictionary is not useful as he worked in Kitigan Zibi (Southern Algonquin). Jean André Cuoq’s 1886 lexicon is somewhat helpful but limited, as he does not employ a systematic or phonemic writing system, meaning that the entries have to be cross-referenced in order to determine the phonemes (units of sound in speech). Marie and Manie Dumont’s 1985 glossary of Northern Algonquin as spoken in Lac Simon comes closest to being helpful, but it is limited in scope. For this reason, linguist Christian Artuso explains that he used the Fiero Double Vowel system in his study of generational differences in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin (1998) because it distinguishes between the long versus the short vowels, which are important in this dialect as well as in other Algonquian languages (Artuso, personal communication February 15th 2014). For the purpose of this book, I have decided to leave aside the no-doubt much more precise but extremely complex Fiero Double Vowel System, as readers (including fluent Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin speakers) would have at first a harder time speaking the words out loud correctly.

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I therefore follow a system developed by a community member who participated in this study and helped me with language questions but whom I cannot name for confidentiality reasons. According to Scot Nickels (1999), it is also the system used by other non-linguists who have worked with the community, notably Anthropologist Sue Roark Calnek. Still, Nickels makes clear that although he tried to standardise his use of this “system of orthography with that of Dr. Roark-Calnek, differences may exist, mainly because of the way we hear various words, or because separate informants often have distinct pronunciations” (1999:XIII). This also applies to this book, and any mistakes are mine alone. I applied the phonetic orthography conventions as outlined by Nickels (1999) here below: Pronunciation: Fifteen consonants are used: b, c, d, g, h, j, k, m, n, s, t, w, and y. c c = sh (example: ship, sheep) d dj = j (example: judge) dj as in “judge” h h = sometimes silent j as in “je” (in French) l often pronounced as “n” (example: Basil = Basin) t pronounced as “ch”, as in “church” The vowels required are a, e, i, and o, with each being assigned two different sounds called long and short, differentiated by the use of a diacritic or accent mark: “^” They are enunciated approximately as follows: a as in butter, or nut â as in father, fate, and page. â = “aw” (example: paw) e whether long or short does not vary enough to require the diacritic. This letter, however, is never mute and is enunciated as in “red” or “dread”, whether at the beginning, middle or end of a word. Also pronounced as in “pay”, or “day”. i as in “bitter” “pig”, “tigwagan” î pronounced as “ee”, as in “see”, or “bleed” o as in “good”, or “hood” ô yields a sound somewhere in between “loon” or “moon” and “moan”. (Nickels 1999: XIII-XIV)

Note on Terminology O n the terms : I ndian , A boriginal , I ndigenous and M itchik anibikok I nik The original peoples of Canada self-identify in different ways, and various terms have been used (and are still in use) to identify them. One of those terms, no longer considered as politically correct, is the word Indian. While it is no longer commonly used by Canadians or heard in contemporary political discourse, the word Indian is still present in old but applied policy language (for example: “Indian Act”, “Status Indians” and “Treaty Indians”), serving as an indicator of how the colonial past is still a part of the present. In this book, the word Indian is therefore used in a historical context only (for instance as in “Indian Residential School” and archive materials), or if citing policy materials, scholars or participants. Used as an umbrella concept to designate First Nations, Inuit and Métis Peoples, the term Aboriginal Peoples is currently the dominant term in Canadian policy and therefore recurrent in the language used in the IRSSA. To avoid confusion in this book, I consistently used the term Aboriginal Peoples to designate collectively the original peoples of Canada. I therefore do not use the term Indigenous Peoples (except in citations), though the latter suggests more of a political consciousness and worldwide solidarity towards those who have been dispossessed of their lands and colonised around the globe. Following “The National Aboriginal Health Organization Terminology Guidelines”1, I use the term Aboriginal people with a lower case when referring to more than one Aboriginal person, and I use the term Aboriginal Peoples (with a capital P) when referring to a collective of groups. Though I tried to avoid the term, when used (mostly in quotes) the term non-Aboriginal people is always singular and lower case. To designate the key focus group in this book, I decided to consistently use the term that all community members self-identify as: Mitchikanibikok Inik. 1 | Last accessed January 8 th 2016: http://www.naho.ca/publications/topics/termi nology/?submit=view

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Though it is hard to pronounce for non-native speakers, it is a term that brings people together as opposed to other designations that have become linked to internal political divides (for instance the appellation: “Barriere Lake Algonquins”, which off reserve community members do not identify with). Still, I included the designation “Barriere Lake Algonquins” (or “Algonquins of Barriere Lake”) when used by community members who explicitly referred to themselves as such, and within a historical context (archives, past research etc.). Accordingly, the term community is recurrent in this book as it is understood as transcending political divides, band status or other “insider/outsider” struggles to include all those who self-identify as Mitchikanibikok Inik.

On the term settler Ever since the publication of Unsettling the Settler Within (Regan 2010)2, there has been an increase in the use of the term settler to designate Canadians in scholarly works addressing the relationship between Canada and Aboriginal Peoples. Though it is an important recognition of colonial history and a reminder of the power imbalances that still exist, I do not use the designation settler outside its historical context or unless in citations. The reason for this is that I tried to apply the same logic of self-identification as I did with other participants, meaning that I had to be consistent in the use of the terms people used to designate themselves: Québécois, Quebecer, Canadian (and not “non-Aboriginal Canadians” or “settler Canadians”). Moreover, while a term like “non-Aboriginal Canadian” implies a denial of colonial history, terms like “settler Canadians” or “settler-descendants”, if important for the opposite reason, are also limited in that they exclude those who did not come to Canada as settlers (slaves, indentured labourers and refugees). That being said, I also report the words people used when creating “othering” discourses (us/them dichotomies through totalising racial signifiers such as “whites” for instance).

On the term sur vivor In this book the term survivor refers to former residential school students who are still alive. Just like the other socio-historical categories discussed above, the term survivor is not unproblematic. Still, in this book it is understood as an appellation that former students have, for the most part, adopted as reflecting the reality of what they have overcome. Inseparable from the language of trauma, the term survivor serves as a reminder that the psychological syndrome seen in survivors of rape, domestic battery, and incest is essentially the same as the 2 | For earlier discussions of the term (and the nature of settler identity) see Epp 2003, Barker 2006 and Simon 2008.

Note on Terminology

syndrome seen in survivors of war (Herman 1992:32). In this context, the term residential school survivor offers recognition of the full impact of the repeated abuse and traumas children experienced in the schools that were used as instruments of a larger colonial assimilative apparatus. Being a survivor sounds more affirmative than being a victim, and for this reason former students have more readily adopted it.

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Introduction S e t tlement and R econciliation The government recognizes that the absence of an apology has been an impediment to healing and reconciliation. Therefore, on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, I stand before you, in this Chamber so central to our life as a country, to apologize to Aboriginal peoples for Canada’s role in the Indian Residential Schools system. […] In moving towards healing, reconciliation and resolution of the sad legacy of Indian Residential Schools, implementation of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement began on September 19, 2007. Years of work by survivors, communities, and Aboriginal organizations culminated in an agreement that gives us a new beginning and an opportunity to move forward together in partnership. (Prime Minister Stephen Harper, Apology June 2008)

With this official apology delivered in the House of Commons on June 11th 2008, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper claimed to have laid a strong foundation for reconciliation between Aboriginal Peoples and Canadians. He stated the removal of Aboriginal children from their families and communities had been wrong, apologised on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, and asked for forgiveness. He acknowledged the lasting detrimental impacts of the residential school system and described the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) as a unique opportunity to educate Canadians about this “sad chapter” of Canadian history: “It will be a positive step in forging a new relationship between Aboriginal peoples and other Canadians,” he said. “A relationship based on the knowledge of our shared history, a respect for each other and a desire to move forward together with a renewed understanding that strong families, strong communities and vibrant cultures and traditions will

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contribute to a stronger Canada for all of us.” (Harper 2008) In this apology, the TRC was qualified as “the cornerstone” of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement (IRSSA), also known as the largest class action settlement in Canadian history. This book investigates the IRSSA and its aspiration for reconciliation by binding it to an anthropological study of emotions at the local level for the Mitchikanibikok Inik, one of nine Algonquin First Nations communities located in the Outaouais and Abitibi-Témiscamingue regions of Quebec. According to community members who participated in this study, two generations of Mitchikanibikok Inik children went to residential schools between 1950 and 1973, more than eighty children in total. Of these, about forty are still alive and were included in the IRSSA. I worked from a qualitative approach with ten of these survivors3, aiming to reach a thick understanding of how they experienced the settlement agreement process. This therefore meant involving their families, the community nursing station staff and other relevant local actors in the research process.

The I ndian R esidential S chools S e t tlement A greement (IRSSA) and reconciliation The IRSSA kicked into force in 2007 and consists of five main components typically found in transitional justice processes that focus on restoration after large-scale human rights violations. The first two components used the bulk of the overall funding ($1.9 billion CAD) to offer direct financial compensation to survivors: the Common Experience Payment (CEP) made survivors eligible for $10,000 CAD plus $3000 CAD for every year they attended a residential school. Former students could also file an Independent Assessment Claim (IAP) for sexual and physical abuse. Though slightly less tedious than an actual trial in court, substantial proof and legal assistance were still required to file such a claim. The other three components are the establishment of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a Commemoration Program and a body of measures to support healing. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) received $60 million CAD and its mandate includes collecting and archiving survivor stories. This ongoing fact-finding process aims to expose the truth about residential schools and generate emotional changes both for survivors, whose experiences are supposed to be legitimised, and for Canadians who are called to change their 3 | This is how former residential school students call themselves – see terminology note.

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

attitudes as a result of this educational, unsettling process (Regan 2010). The TRC is unique in the sense that it is the result of a court order (it is not liable to government), it has no subpoena power, and it is unfolding in a country which is not in political transition. With an initial five-year mandate it has been travelling throughout the country and has held numerous community events, individual statement-taking sessions, as well as seven national events. In January 2014 it received a one-year extension to fulfil its mandate (including its final report) and a four-day closing ceremony is planed in Ottawa in early June 2015. The Commemoration Program is mostly coordinated with the TRC and has been allocated $20 million CAD. The commemoration mission was to bear witness through the official state apology delivered by Prime Minister Harper, as well as by erecting monuments and memorials. The last IRSSA component is a body of measures to support healing. The later are administered through Health Canada and its Indian Residential Schools Resolution Health Support Program (IRS RHSP). Until September 30th 2014, the IRSSA also provided additional funding ($125 million CAD) to the Aboriginal Healing Foundation (AHF) to support community-based healing initiatives that were already underway. In 2010, the federal budget made the controversial decision of not renewing the financial support for the AHF, meaning that by the fall of 2014 the foundation had closed its few remaining projects. With these five components the IRSSA not only aims to compensate individuals for past harms, but it inscribes its work and mandate within a discourse of reconciliation. Yet, and as this introduction later explains in depth, beyond the general idea of forging a positive relationship between Aboriginal Peoples and Canadians, what reconciliation means and how it can be achieved is vaguely defined. The TRC website states: We know that reconciliation is very hard to categorize or explain. It means one something to someone, and perhaps carries a very different feeling or meaning to someone else. It is at its core very individual, yet when considered collectively, reconciliation can change the very way we look at ourselves and at our fellow citizens. (TRC website 4)

This kind of statement is inherently ambivalent as it at once implies that reconciliation is not collectively definable, while at the same time suggesting it is of tremendous collective importance. As I later develop, this book explores the hypothesis that despite hiding behind such statements the IRSSA shapes its aspiration for reconciliation through its five main components and the way it implements them: be it the TRC (see chapter eight), the apology or the financial compensations (see chapter seven), the settlement elements address very 4 | Last accessed November 4 th 2014: http://www.trc.ca/websites/reconciliation/index.php?p=356

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emotional issues and elicit emotions in this process. This book posits that we need to scrutinise emotions in order to understand what is at stake for people participating in such processes. Emotions constitute a sort of reconciliation barometer, and if this is what the IRSSA aspires to inspire, then it is important to find out how the actors involved in the process are experiencing the settlement agreement and what reconciliation means to them. The IRSSA frames its mandate as aspiring towards reconciliation. What does this mean for Mitchikanibikok Inik residential school survivors and their families? How have they experienced the settlement agreement? By widening the space of reconciliation beyond the IRSSA structures and the spaces these create (while still including them), I attempt to move beyond the emotions these official structures elicit and explore how emotions are shaped and shared in processes of remembering the past, understanding the present and considering the future in the aftermath of residential schools for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. In doing so, I examine emotions in relation to the IRSSA (especially the financial restitution measures and the TRC) in the everyday life and discourse of the Mitchikanibikok Inik. This requires first looking at how remembering the past shapes the present. It also means examining how healing and reconciliation are locally understood. Finally it entails an exploration of the social, political and personal relational webs between the Mitchikanibikok Inik and the people and institutions with which they interact in order to detect healing and reconciliation challenges and strategies at work.

The M itchik anibikok I nik , education and emotions The Mitchikanibikok Inik (People of the Stone Weir) refer to themselves as Anishnabe, which means human being, and are also known as the Algonquins of Barriere Lake. They live in and out of the Rapid Lake reserve (also called Kitiganik5), on land never ceded by treaty (or conquered by war) in the province of Quebec. If the community recently counted 712 people on its band list (AANDC 2012), the population consisted of less than a fourth of that in the 1960s (there were 160 persons in the band in 1964 according to a field report by Sigrid Bechmann-Khera 1964:34). The departure to residential school of over eighty children in such a small community temporarily emptied the newly established reserve of Rapid Lake by nearly half, and most band members today are either survivors or their descendants (eighty per cent are descendants according to the 5 | Kitiganik translates as “place to be planted” or “plantation”. Kitigan means “cleared land” or “cultivated land” (ik is a locative that indicates in/to a place) and there was once a kind of tree farm there where jack pines (okik) were cultivated as the result of a natural forest fire.

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

community nursing station’s wellness counsellor – Ishkote Ikwe, 60, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic). Interviews I carried out with study participants between 2006 and 2013 document that the first generation of children was sent in 1950 to two English-speaking residential schools in Ontario: Spanish Indian Residential School (in the town of Spanish), and St-Mary’s Indian Residential School in Kenora. A second generation was then sent to the French-speaking Indian Residential School of Amos mostly between 1962 and 1972. Located at Saint-Marc-deFiguery, the Indian Residential School of Amos (1955-1973) was one of the four schools in Quebec that was run by the Oblates of Mary Immaculate, a Roman Catholic community of missionary priests and brothers. Until they started being sent to residential school in 1950, Mitchikanibikok Inik children had been brought up on the land following a semi-nomadic hunter-trapper way of life. Traditional education, rooted in the principles of respect, self-control, patience and endurance, encouraged learning through observation and letting children try things autonomously (Larose 1991; Bousquet 2012). As has also been observed in other Aboriginal groups (Briggs 1970; Anderson 2007) correction happened indirectly, usually through humour or mockery. By rejecting punishment and physical violence, traditional education was at odds with the formal instruction the children received in the residential schools, which were partly also created as an incentive to settle the Aboriginal population of that area in the 1950s (Bousquet 2012). Traditionally and to some extent still today, emphasis was put on control of emotions like anger (Bousquet 2009) and Algonquins have long been portrayed as discrete when it comes to emotional expression by Catholic missionaries active in their evangelisation since the 1830’s. Still, high emotional control does not translate into a lack of emotions, but rather into specific cultural codifications of emotions that cannot necessarily be analysed against our own cultural norms (Ferrara 1999). According to Arlie Russell Hochschild (1983), cultural codifications of emotions specify when and how emotions are to be shown (so-called “display rules”), or even felt (“feeling rules”). They also vary within a culture depending on factors such as age and gender, and are internalised as norms by children during their socialisation process (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013). Aboriginal Peoples in Canada and Algonquins in Quebec have experienced major societal changes with Christianisation, the switch to sedentary lifestyles and residential schooling in the last century. These changes had a big impact on Aboriginal cultures and, it can be hypothesised, on cultural codifications (or codes) of emotions. As is further developed in the first chapter, my interest in emotions is rooted in an understanding of the latter as much more than the irrational and subjective reactions that they have sometimes been described as. Rather, this book follows an approach that views emotions as central and powerful agents

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of individual, social and political change, and as key elements of analysis when it comes to understanding processes of reconciliation. Shaped by an interest in emotions as they relate to culture and social contexts, I nevertheless agree with an approach that does not oppose biology and culture, and that claims that regardless of its biological or basic attributes every emotion can be shaped by culture in social situations (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2009:44). Accordingly, I suggest that a better understanding of Algonquin cultural codes of emotion and of the emotional conflicts and changes that unfolded due to residential school can help shed light on the way survivors are experiencing the IRSSA.

The I ndian R esidential S chool S ystem and assimil ation Before outlining the theoretical considerations central to this book, a contextualising sketch of the emergence of residential schools and their associated contemporary discourse of reconciliation is necessary. In his book A National Crime (1999), John Milloy traces the history of residential schools for Aboriginal children as initially introduced by various Christian missionary organisations in the early 17th century. The first attempts at Christianising and “civilising” Aboriginal Peoples through education were already far from successful, as exemplified with the first boarding school experiment that took place in New France and only lasted from 1620 to 1629, when it became clear that it was a failure (the children ran away). The boarding school idea was then only fully revived in the 1830s, with church-run initiatives to which the federal government provided grants. Despite the existence of these schools, it is only as of 1883 that the system of residential schools was established (TRC report 2012:5-6). This system, with its clear goal of assimilation, operated well into the mid-20th century. Over time, more than 139 residential schools existed across Canada in every province except New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island. According to Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada (AANDC 2008) about 150,000 children were removed and separated from their families and communities to attend the government-funded schools that were run by the Roman Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, Moravian, and United Churches. A significant amount of research on the abuse that took place in the schools across Canada has been produced in the last two decades, documenting the horrific experiences of sexual, physical, emotional and psychological abuse recalled by many survivors (Haig-Brown 1988; Miller 1996; Grant 1996; Chrisjohn, Young and Maraun 1997; Milloy 1999; Chartrand, Logan and Daniels 2006; Tremblay 2008; Ottawa 2010). Children were often used as cheap labour, lived in unfit conditions (malnutrition and disease were frequent) and were taught to look down upon their native cultures. They were shamed because they were Aboriginal. Frequently schools forbade them to speak their native

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

language amongst themselves, and punishment in general was excessive. The children devoted little time to their studies as they were expected to do manual or domestic labour, and most acquired no more than a basic literacy. Though exact numbers are currently under examination, there are reports of deaths (4000 deaths reported by the TRC as of January 2014), health experimentation (Mosby 2013), illnesses, and disappearances of children while at some residential schools. A culture of abuse permeated certain schools leading older students to also inflict abuse and bullying (TRC report 2012:44). The existing body of literature on residential schools calls for an understanding of the schools within their historical context, one that takes into account religious intent, political intent and the use of law as a way to “get rid of the Indian problem” as said by Duncan Campbell Scott, deputy superintendent general of Indian Affairs from 1913 to 1932. It shows that the abuse went far beyond the standard of the time (strapping children for instance) and aimed at destroying cultures for the sake of Christianisation and assimilation: what Robert Jaulin defined in 1970 as ethnocide, that is the systematic “négation de l’autre” (negation of the other 1970:409) and the according destruction of its way of life (note the similarities and differences between the concepts of ethnocide, cultural genocide and genocide will be subject to discussion in chapter eight). These types of ethnocidal colonial policies towards Aboriginal Peoples were also commonplace in other settler countries, and whether through forced schooling or foster care, similar methods were applied in the United States, Australia and New Zealand. In Canada, the RCAP report describes how residential schools were part of a national policy of displacement and assimilation that was cemented after the 1867 British North America Act (BNA). Indeed shortly after the birth of Canada as a country, the 1876 Indian Act was put into place and gave almost complete federal control over the lives of Indians and their interactions with settlers. It also made the Government of Canada responsible for the land, health and education of Indians, which meant it started to get involved in the administration of the residential school system in order to meet its educational obligation under the Indian Act. The Indian Act’s goal was to bring Indian status to an end in order to relieve the government of the economic and social responsibilities it had taken on through the treaty process (TRC report 2012:11)6.

6 | Prior to the 1867 BNA, the British government had negotiated numerous treaties with Aboriginal nations in eastern Canada. The expansion of treaties out West accelerated as of the early 1870s (now with the federal government) in order to secure land for European settlers in the face of increasing conflicts with the Aboriginal population. Treaties were at first a one-off payment in exchange for land, and later provided reserves (land set aside for Aboriginal groups) and annual payments (TRC report 2012:6-7).

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Inspired by the 1879 Davin Report 7 recommendations, the Canadian government, as of 1920, made attendance to the schools mandatory under the Indian Act and Indigenous children under sixteen years of age were forcibly removed from their families to attend residential schools. While the industrial school program had been brought to an end in 1911, the last federally run residential school closed in 1997.

S ituating the emergence of a national discourse of reconciliation In the last decade, the word reconciliation has increasingly invaded the realm of public discourse concerning Aboriginal Peoples in Canada. There is talk of reconciliation in child welfare, reconciliation in decolonisation processes and reconciliation after residential schools. In fact, reconciliation is used as such an all-encompassing term when it comes to discussing Aboriginal Peoples’ well being and the relationships between Canadians and Aboriginal Peoples, that contextualisation is necessary before addressing the theoretical problems posed by its meaning. The triggering factor for the emergence of a national discourse of reconciliation was a voluminous report published in 1996 by the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP) that called for radical changes in the relationships between Aboriginal Peoples, the Canadian government and Canadian society as a whole. With the perspective that it is impossible to make sense of the issues that trouble the relationship today without a clear understanding of the past (RCAP Dussault and Erasmus 1996: Vol. 1, part 1, ch. 3:1), the report took a historical approach and started off by delineating four main stages in the relationship between Aboriginal Peoples and non-Aboriginals: Separate Worlds, Contact and Co-operation (as of the 15th century), Displacement and Assimilation (starting in the late 18th century) and Negotiation and Renewal (already underway since the 1969 White Paper). Volume one of the five-part report constitutes an exploration of the Displacement and Assimilation stage, which is the backdrop for the call to renew relationships. This exploration exposed the roots of 7 | This influential report that helped shape the Canadian residential school system was written by Nicholas Flood Davin, a journalist who was sent to the United States to study the Indian education system. The report made numerous recommendations including taking Indian children away from their parents at a young age, and it encouraged the Churches’ involvement in education in collaboration with the government for mainly two reasons: a moral one (replacing Aboriginal spirituality by Christianity), and an economical one: they could pay substandard salaries to the missionaries and thereby save money (TRC report 2012:10).

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

the issues faced by many Aboriginal communities today and brought residential schools and their disastrous legacy to national attention. Following pressure from the Assembly of First Nations, the Government responded to the RCAP report in January 1998. In its report entitled Gathering Strength: Canada’s Aboriginal Action Plan, the Canadian government included a “Statement of Reconciliation” in which it stated: Reconciliation is an ongoing process. In renewing our partnership, we must ensure that the mistakes which marked our past relationship are not repeated. The Government of Canada recognizes that policies that sought to assimilate Aboriginal people, women and men, were not the way to build a strong country. We must instead continue to find ways in which Aboriginal people can participate fully in the economic, political, cultural and social life of Canada in a manner which preserves and enhances the collective identities of Aboriginal communities, and allows them to evolve and flourish in the future. Working together to achieve our shared goals will benefit all Canadians, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal alike. (Canada, Minister of Indian Affairs and Development, 1997)

The intent to reconcile by “renewing the partnerships” in a meaningful and lasting change was one of four objectives including “Strengthening Aboriginal Governance”, “Developing a New Fiscal Relationship” and “Supporting Strong Communities, People and Economies”. The commitment to renew the partnerships included the “Statement of Reconciliation”, which recognised historic injustices towards Aboriginal Peoples and expressed remorse with regards to the residential school system. It allocated $350 million dollars to create and support the Aboriginal Healing Foundation (AHF), a not-for-profit private corporation with an eleven year mandate to research, fund and conduct Aboriginal-run healing initiatives addressing the legacy of abuse in residential schools. It also called for the implementation of an Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR) program to avoid long and costly civil litigation for survivors of residential schools. Though the “Statement of Reconciliation” was criticised that it fell short of an apology, all together, the four objectives promoted fair, healthy and respectful relationships on the personal, community and wider political levels. They recognised that this would mean implementing the right of Aboriginal Peoples to self-government and a renewal of treaty relationships. As has been well documented by scholars (Castellano, Archibald and DeGagné 2008; Chrisjohn and Wasacase 2009; Cassidy 2009; Jung 2009; Regan 2010), this is what paved the way for the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement. In 2001 the government created the Office of Indian Residential Schools Resolution Canada (IRSRC) to deal with abuse claims. The National Resolution Framework was launched in 2003 and included an Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR) process. This was an out-of-court process compensating former students for abuse. Nevertheless, nineteen class actions were launched

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across the country and survivors filed over 14,000 individual cases in the years following the RCAP report. In this light, the ADR soon proved to be unsuccessful (for various reasons including its extremely tedious application procedure for survivors) and the courts were so overwhelmed that a settlement for financial compensation to former residential school students was called for by both the Assembly of First Nations and the Canadian Bar Association in 2004-2005 in order to deal with things in a timely and affordable fashion (Stanton 2011). In May 2006, the Canadian Government (represented by the Honourable Frank Iacobucci), the Churches involved in running the schools, the Assembly of First Nations and the plaintiffs (former students of Indian Residential Schools), as represented by the National Consortium and the Merchant Law Group, agreed upon the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement (IRSSA). Survivors across the country had until Christmas 2006 to object to the proposal. Once the proposal was through, there was an opt-out period until spring 2007, when the settlement came into force and former students were able to start applying for payments8. Those who chose to go ahead with the settlement lost their right to ever go back on the issue; that means they lost their right to bring the government or a former abuser to court. According to AANDC, 1074 former students opted out.

D efining reconciliation as understood by the IRSSA The IRSSA’s official court website lists the twenty-five IRSSA schedules, each giving procedural and/or legal information as pertains to an entity involved in the settlement or a settlement measure. Only two schedules directly address reconciliation: the TRC’s mandate as detailed in Schedule “N”, and the Commemoration Policy Directive as detailed in Schedule “J”. The first objective of the Commemoration Policy Directive is to “assist in honouring and validating the healing and reconciliation of former students and their families through Commemoration initiatives that address their residential school experience” (Schedule “J” page 1, IRSSA website9). Communities or groups of former students can submit commemoration initiative proposals to the TRC, who then makes recommendations to IRSRC.

8 | Note that the settlement funds, $2 billion CAD, are essentially government money. According to Daniel Tremblay the churches settled to provide $100 million CAD in cash and services (2008:213). 9 | Residential Schools Settlement Official Court Notice, last accessed online November 4 th 2014: http://www.residentialschoolsettlement.ca/settlement.html

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

This means the task of giving meaning and facilitating the work of reconciliation rests essentially with the TRC. Therefore it is worthwhile examining how reconciliation is framed within the TRC mandate. The introduction states: There is an emerging and compelling desire to put the events of the past behind us so that we can work towards a stronger and healthier future. The truth telling and reconciliation process as part of an overall holistic and comprehensive response to the Indian Residential School legacy is a sincere indication and acknowledgement of the injustices and harms experienced by Aboriginal people and the need for continued healing. This is a profound commitment to establishing new relationships embedded in mutual recognition and respect that will forge a brighter future. The truth of our common experiences will help set our spirits free and pave the way to reconciliation. (Italics and bold added, Schedule “N” page 1, IRSSA website10)

This helps clarify reconciliation as understood by the IRSSA in several ways: First, the TRC’s mandate situates truth telling and reconciliation as part of “an overall holistic and comprehensive response to the Indian Residential School legacy”. This is important as it emphasises that it is part of a wider settlement and implies that the work of truth telling and reconciliation is also linked to the other settlement measures. Besides its role in the evaluation of commemoration proposals, it has among other responsibilities the duty of providing a context and meaning for the Common Experience Payment through its national events (TRC Mandate, Events, 10 [c]). Second, the TRC’s mandate assures the “sincere indication and acknowledgement of the injustices and harms experienced by Aboriginal people and the need for continued healing.” Reconciliation is here framed as part of a healing discourse. It is interesting to note that the IRSSA’s logo itself actually puts emphasis on healing, not on reconciliation: “The residential schools settlement has been approved. The healing continues” (Indian Residential Schools Settlement – Official Court Website11). Third, reconciliation is understood as a process as well as a long-term goal (see italics in quote). The FAQ section of the TRC website confirms this by explaining that “The Commission views reconciliation as an on-going individual and collective process that will require participation from all those affected by the IRS experience. We will move towards achieving reconciliation through

10 | Ibid. 11 | Last accessed November 4 th 2014: http://www.residentialschoolsettlement.ca/ English.html

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activities such as public education and engagement, commemoration and recommendations to the parties” (italics added, TRC website12). And the last point is that the commitment to the establishment of new relationships embedded in mutual recognition and respect in the above text alludes to the one between Canadian society and Aboriginal Peoples, but in its mandate principles, the TRC schedule clarifies that reconciliation is “an ongoing individual and collective process, and will require commitment from all those affected including First Nations, Inuit and Métis former Indian Residential School (IRS) students, their families, communities, religious entities, former school employees, government and the people of Canada. Reconciliation may occur between any of the above groups” (italics added, Schedule “N” page 1, IRSSA website13). This extends the work of reconciliation not only to large groups (national reconciliation), but also to individuals and their families (inter-personal reconciliation), as well as their communities. The fact that the new relationships are to be embedded in mutual recognition and respect implies the creation of bonds of trust between the above groups. Beyond these rather general points, there are no further precisions in the TRC’s mandate concerning reconciliation and how it might unfold. In a 2008 report from the Aboriginal Healing Foundation Research Series, Jennifer Llewellyn pointed out that the lack of specific attention paid to the goal of reconciliation or how it might be achieved was out of necessary caution: the TRC and other community programmes alone cannot achieve reconciliation and do not promise to do so. But Llewellyn also warned that bridging the gap between truth and reconciliation is a substantial challenge that calls for attention. Truth-seeking and truth-telling, two pillars of the TRC, are necessary steps towards reconciliation, but they are insufficient on their own (2008:187). The lack of guidance when it comes to reconciliation in the IRSSA is a reflection of what studies of worldwide transitional justice and conflict resolution cases tend to agree upon: there is no roadmap for reconciliation, and about 156 ways to define it, in English, according to TRC Chair Justice Murray Sinclair14. That is, without Aboriginal perspectives on reconciliation, which Commissioner Sinclair and his staff want to research as part of the work of the TRC.

12 | FAQs last accessed November 4 th 2014: http://www.trc.ca/websites/trcinstitu tion/index.php?p=10 13 | Residential Schools Settlement Official Court Notice, last accessed online November 4 th 2014: http://www.residentialschoolsettlement.ca/settlement.html 14 | Commissioner Sinclair in a lecture (unpublished) given as part of the Indigenous Knowledge Seminar Series offered by the Aboriginal Focus Programs at the University of Manitoba in the Aboriginal Education Centre, April 11th 2011. Last accessed on YouTube, September 25 th 2014: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuFc_Z9F-NA

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

Theore tical consider ations on tr ansitional justice and reconciliation By its design, the IRSSA calls attention to the way that reconciliation is embedded with processes of memory and healing. It raises questions concerning historical truths and calls for the dominant majority to listen to the minority. Specific spaces are being created as part of the TRC for this to happen, spaces where survivors can tell their stories either in front of an audience (live, retransmitted online) or in a smaller committee. These are spaces that engage peoples’ emotions through the giving and receiving of difficult stories. The transformative potentials and challenges of these official spaces and how they relate to reconciliation are at the heart of an ongoing scholarly discussion in Canada. Most have, in one way or the other, asked about the meaning of reconciliation after residential schools and about what reconciliation entails. Informed by a large body of literature on transitional, restorative and reparative justice from legal scholars, political scientists and philosophers (Barkan 2000; Abu-Nimer 2001; Torpey 2006; Kymlicka and Bashir 2008; Murphy 2010), efforts have been made to understand the discourse of national reconciliation in Canada within a wider international context of transitional justice trends. Transitional justice is a relatively young and interdisciplinary ‘field of study’ that emerged in the late 1980s when demands for justice in response to political changes in Latin America and Eastern Europe began (ICTJ 2009:1). It is from this wave of transitions from authoritarianism to liberal democracy (starting with Argentina in 1983) that “transitional justice” got its name. Human rights activists and others wanted to address systematic abuses by former regimes without endangering the political transformations that were underway (ICTJ 2009:1). Governments there adopted many of what became known as the basic approaches to transitional justice: mechanisms such as TRCs or financial compensation that deal specifically with systematic or widespread human rights violations (Minow 1998; Quinn 2011). The International Center for Transitional Justice defines transitional justice as an adapted form of justice that “seeks recognition for victims and promotion of possibilities for peace, reconciliation and democracy” (ICTJ 2009:1). Scholars have identified three main paradigms within the field of transitional justice: retributive justice, restorative justice and reparative justice (Minow 1998; Quinn 2011). These paradigms of justice are driven by different goals and therefore work differently, but scholars seem to agree that in the case of transitional justice they should not be considered independently of one another (Boraine 2006; Fischer 2011). The IRSSA does not include retributive justice (no judicial investigations, no prosecutions), but a mixture reparative and restorative justice mechanisms. Typically, restorative justice mechanisms try

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to establish a dialogue between offenders and offended (for instance through TRCs), with the aim of restoring them back into the community. Reparative justice aims to repair the suffering the victim has endured (for instance through an official apology) and is usually the result of restorative justice. In the case of the IRSSA, the financial compensations and the official apology fall under the reparative paradigm, and the healing measures and the TRC are restorative justice mechanisms. Truth and reconciliation commissions have been adopted as a way to deal with victims and perpetrators of collective atrocity in processes of national reconciliation, and there have been over thirty commissions around the world since 1974. Most were created by the governments of the countries concerned, and some by the United Nations as well as by nongovernmental organisations (Minow 1998; Gibson 2004). Though they often differ from one another in their application, truth commissions share a common aim of moving away from retributive justice (criminal verdicts) towards truth-seeking and reconciliation. This does not prevent them, by definition, from cooperating with judicial processes, and the extent to which commissions are involved in facilitating prosecutions (by handing over perpetrators’ names for instance) or in granting amnesty is entirely dependent on their mandate. For instance, the well-known 1994 post-apartheid South African TRC had the power to grant amnesty to perpetrators who testified. This decision to encourage perpetrators to testify in order to receive amnesty was rooted in a Christian approach to reconciliation, which considers forgiveness as its central element. While it was made clear that the Canadian TRC is not modelled on the South African one (as stated by National Chief Phil Fontaine at a conference in 200715) and that it did not consider forgiveness as a requirement (as clarified in 2011 by Commissioner Sinclair16), the Canadian TRC, just like the South African TRC, has been designed with elements from the restorative justice approach that aims to facilitate reconciliation. According to law professor Martha Minow, restorative justice emphasises the humanity of both offenders and victims: “It seeks repair of social connections and peace rather than retribution against the offenders. Building connections and enhancing communication 15 | Phil Fontaine “The Long Journey to Justice: The Personal as Political” (unpublished) lecture presented at a conference entitled: “Preparing for the Truth Commission: Sharing the Truth about Residential Schools. A Conference on Truth and Reconciliation as Restorative Justice”, University of Calgary, June 15 th 2007. 16 | Commissioner Sinclair in a lecture (unpublished) given as part of the Indigenous Knowledge Seminar Series offered by Aboriginal Focus Programs at the University of Manitoba in the Aboriginal Education Centre, April 11th 2011. Last accessed on YouTube, September 15 th 2013: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuFc_Z9F-NA

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

between perpetrators and those they victimized, and forging ties across the community, takes precedence over punishment or law enforcement” (Minow 1998:92). Much of the academic focus so far has therefore been on the particularities of the Canadian TRC within a non-transitional context and as a result of litigation, and while some have described it as a lesson for Australia and the United States17 (Cassidy 2009), most have focused on its shortcomings and potential failures. Scholars have scrutinised its restorative application, which includes a ‘no-naming of perpetrators’ policy, as well as its focus on truth rather than reconciliation (Llewellyn 2008; Flisfeder 2010). Others have pointed out the TRC’s lack of focus towards institutional change of the kind of power structures that enabled residential schools in the first place, raising again the issue of accountability and questioning the scope of transitional justice in this application (Angel 2009; Jung 2009; Chrisjohn and Wasacase 2009; Bonner and James 2011; Stanton 2011). Attention has also been called to the way TRCs can be state tools which fail to address indigenous self-determination requests and therefore fail to change inter-group relations (Corntassel and Holder 2008). Proponents of this view (Alfred 2005; Simpson 2008, 2011) have articulated decolonisation and restitution “including land, financial transfers and other forms of assistance to compensate for past harms and continuing injustices” (Alfred 2005:152) as necessary elements of reconciliation, without which the process would constitute a further injustice. This call for a form of structural redress points to a main area of debate when it comes to reconciliation: the question of justice. At this point it should be made clear that the debate in Canada has not centred on retributive versus restorative/reparative justice so much as to the scope and application of restorative and reparative measures in this (non-transitional) instance. It was indeed generally claimed that retributive justice would not bring much to survivors, their families and communities: most of the perpetrators of physical and sexual abuse are dead. It has also been claimed that the retributive justice system is adversarial and does not deal with the individual and collective consequences of the trauma generated by the abuses (R. Ross 1996, 2004). Proponents of the restorative approach have essentially put forward three arguments that are relevant in the IRSSA context and for this study: the first argument is that restorative justice (TRCs) reduces the range of “impermissi17 | The Canadian TRC is the first commission that is exclusively focused on harms carried out against Aboriginal peoples. Since 2013 there is also the Maine Wabanaki-State Child Welfare Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) whose mandate is to “uncover and acknowledge the truth about what happened to Wabanaki children and families involved with the Maine child welfare system” (Maine Wabanaki-State Child Welfare TRC website, last accessed November 12th 2014: http://www.mainewabanakitrc.org/).

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ble lies” in the public realm (Ignatieff 2001; Regan 2010). Remembering the past becomes a polyphonic post-colonial emotional terrain where Aboriginal Peoples obtain a form of recognition and validation necessary for healing and reconciliation. The second argument is that restorative justice resonates with and owes much to the insights of Aboriginal conceptions of justice (R. Ross 1996, 2004; Llewellyn 2002, 2008). According to this view, retributive justice is based in Western principles that are incompatible with Aboriginal ways of thinking and feeling. And the third argument is that restorative justice promotes healing, especially emotional healing by reflecting a practical view about human psychology that seeks to repair and build social connections: “Unlike retributive approaches, which may reinforce anger and a sense of victimhood, reparative approaches instead aim to help victims move beyond anger and a sense of powerlessness” (Minow 1998:92). By bringing emotions into the foreground, the last argument makes a causal link between truth-telling (encouraged by the IRSSA) and healing: by sharing their stories and breaking the silence around the taboos of multiple forms of abuse, survivors and their families can set off on “healing journeys” that imply emotional labour. These three arguments, and their implications in the case of the IRSSA, point to a theoretical dilemma when it comes to restorative/reparative justice and emotions: the fundamental tension between the competing imperatives of fidelity to legitimate emotions stemming from injustice (such as anger, rage or sorrow) and the seeming countervailing need to overcome these emotions for the sake of reconciliation (Ure 2008:285-287). Effectively the IRSSA promotes emotions (and emotional expression) in the sense that it legitimises the anger of residential school survivors through its victim-centred emotional TRC process, yet at the same time its objective to repair and renew personal and political relationships (and come to a “resolution of the sad legacy […]” see 2008 apology opening quote, italics added) calls for an “overcoming” or a “healing” of negative emotions for the sake of creating a viable political community: a new emotional regime. How do survivors deal with this emotionally tense process? How do they make sense of the reparation payments in this context? How do they experience the TRC? To begin exploring these questions requires an understanding of the nature of the wrong that the IRSSA attempts to address, as well as a culturally sensitive approach to emotions and healing. It also calls for a distinction between interpersonal reconciliation (and healing) and political reconciliation both at the community level and at the wider national level. Though the IRSSA mentions these various levels, it does not distinguish its application according to the specificities involved in the various processes at each level. Doing so sheds light on the importance of distinguishing between what Trudy Govier and Wilhelm Verwoerd (2002) call issues of quantity and issues of content. They understand quantity issues as those concerning the level at which reconciliation is sought:

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

national, community, small group or interpersonal. Content issues concern the way reconciliation is approached: as either non-violent coexistence (also coined as minimalist, weak or thin reconciliation) or as the restoration (or creation) of a friendship (also coined as maximalist, strong or thick reconciliation). It seems logical to deduce from this that ending the violence has to be a prerequisite to strong reconciliation, and this calls for an understanding of violence not only as an acute event but also as the slow erosion of community through the soft knife of settler policies that severely disrupted the life worlds of people (Das and Kleinman 2001). Govier and Verwoerd claim that by underestimating the differences between the different levels of reconciliation, the maximalist approach to reconciliation is likely to opt for a simplistic application of a richly emotional conception of reconciliation to the large-group level (2002:181). This kind of confusion between interpersonal and group level reconciliation, they argue, generates theoretical and attitudinal problems: On the one hand “if one envisions reconciliation as a kind of richly emotional Holy Grail, one is likely to conclude that the fabulous goal is unreachable for large groups” (2002:181). The results are pessimistic and cynical attitudes that undermine political processes of national reconciliation. And on the other hand, the minimalist approach to reconciliation (reconciliation as co-existence) neglects “to consider links between the large-group and individual levels, thus underestimating the significance of attitudes and feelings” (2002:181). It therefore seems key to avoid either conflating or unrealistically separating the interpersonal and national levels. Govier and Verwoerd suggest that a way to do this is to opt for an understanding of reconciliation as the building or rebuilding of trust in relationships, whether at the interpersonal, community and national intergroup-levels. They insist on the fact that “maintaining a working, trusting relationship is per definition an ongoing process, not a singular event marking success” (2002:186). This book therefore does not approach reconciliation as a noun, but as a verb that involves, as Marc Howard Ross put it: “changing the relationship between parties in conflict both instrumentally and emotionally in a more positive direction so that each can more easily envision a joint future. Reconciliation is not one thing (Kriesberg 1998a) and is best viewed as a continuum, meaning that there can be degrees of reconciliation rather than just its presence or absence; furthermore, there are strong and weak versions of reconciliation” (2004:200). By approaching the relational shift as aiming for the building or rebuilding of trust, this work also acknowledges the key role that emotions play in constructing relationships at all levels of reconciliation. In this light, I attempt to explore reconciliation by approaching it as an umbrella concept that regroups three interrelated key processes that are taken into

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account in conjunction with emotions: remembering the past, experiencing settlement, and the deployment of healing strategies.

A nthropology and restor ative justice A disciplinary outlook reveals that anthropologists have tended to focus either on the legalistic aspects of formal reconciliation processes (Wilson 2001; Blackburn 2012; Niezen 2010), or on local conflict resolution practices (White and Watson-Gegeo 1990; Avruch 1991; Lederach 1991; Bousquet 2009). They have also increasingly shown interest in exploring the linkages between memory and violence and how those relate to individual and collective healing and reconciliation processes (Antze and Lambek 1996; Scheper-Hughes 1998; Das, Kleinman et al. 2001; Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois 2004; Labelle et al. 2005; Robben 2005; Baussant 2006). Though emotions have been recognised as playing an important role in constituting identity and community after political violence and trauma, very few anthropological studies bring them to the foreground (exceptions are: Scheper-Hughes 1998; Zarowsky 2004; Mlodoch 2012; Kumala-Sakti 2013). As developed in the first chapter, I therefore also draw from an inter-disciplinary pool of Native studies, women’s studies, political science and psychology research (Ahmed 2004; Nadler and Saguy 2004; Hutchison and Bleiker 2008; Million 2009; Regan 2010) in order to explore emotions in relation to the IRSSA. Though it would seem likely for anthropologists to be mostly in support of national restorative justice projects due to a long-standing interest on legal pluralism in the discipline, they have actually been quite critical in two main ways: The first main area of anthropological critique revolves around the methods surrounding human rights documentation and official history-writing in restorative processes at the national level (F. Ross 1997; Buur 2000; Wilson 2000, 2001, 2003). The main arguments here are that in South Africa positivist methods were used in statement gathering resulting into the break down of individual narratives into quantifiable acts (Buur 2000) and only forensic truth was granted epistemological value in the process of creating knowledge about the past. Therefore the truth of the past became a theological one (about evil) and not about history (Wilson 2003). In this light, Paulette Regan’s (2010) call for unsettling Canada’s foundation myth as a peacemaking nation is important and addresses this potential pitfall of loosing the master narrative due to too much focus on individual perpetrators. The second main area of anthropological critique, as articulated mainly by Richard Wilson (2003), concerns the legitimacy of restorative justice as a national tool for reconciliation. He claims restorative justice is used by governments to justify impunity in relation to past political violence. Wilson shows

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

how the state narrative of reconciliation in post apartheid South Africa, which tried to merge a Christian understanding of reconciliation with the concept of ubuntu18 to justify its restorative approach, clashed with local applications of retributive justice and reconciliation in the lekgotla township courts (Wilson 2000, 2001). Wilson urges anthropologists to look at the unintended social consequences created by national reconciliation projects and often ignored by policy makers and globalisation theorists alike. Following his recommendation, I explore how Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors understand reconciliation and their views on the IRSSA’s restorative and reparative approaches, as well as the settlement’s impacts at the local level. Is the IRSSA of any use to Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families? What is at stake for them with this settlement? Moving away from the legalistic aspects of national restorative reconciliation processes, anthropologists have shown the importance of placing conflict and conflict resolution processes in a larger sociocultural context, which does not isolate them from the world-of-meaning in which they are embedded (Avruch 1991:15). This means, according to Kevin Avruch, paying particular attention “to the native’s understanding of human nature and personhood (of self and others) – and affect – as the starting point of our enquiries” (1991:15). In Canada, Aboriginal public discourse, along with many studies, in general reiterate what has been articulated as a pan-Indian understanding of self which is defined in relation to other humans (family, community) and also importantly: to the land. While anthropological studies of conflict resolution and reconciliation in South-East Asia and Oceania show how metaphors of blockages and entanglements (White 1991; Kumala Sakti 2013) reveal the local social and cultural ruptures at stake in conflict situations, in Canada what is recurrent in public speeches made by Aboriginal leaders and wellness workers is the concept of disconnection. Aboriginal discourse tends to articulate residential schools as having fostered emotional disconnections (from the land, the traditions, the languages, as well as the inability to perceive and stop intergenerational patterns of abuse etc.). Healing becomes about how to bring back connection between individuals, and between what they are and what they once were (or what used to define them) as a people. What implications does this have? What strategies are the Mitchikanibikok Inik using to do this inside and outside the official IRSSA spaces? 18 | Ubuntu according to Wilson is a term that former Archbishop Tutu keenly used to express and create a romanticised sense of “rural African community” that emphasised reciprocity, respect for human dignity, community cohesion and solidarity. Wilson claims that the language of reconciliation and rights talk became synonymous with Ubuntu to prevent vengeance and retaliation after the South African TRC was set-up in 1995 (for more see Wilson 2001).

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Indeed while state processes of redress are an undeniable element of societal change in the face of injustice, Veena Das and Arthur Kleinman remind us that “it is not only in the Commission but in small communities and families away from the eyes of the Commission that work is being done to come to terms with painful memories and to domesticate the terror of the past. […] Reconciliation is not a matter of confession offered once and for all, but rather the building of relationships by performing the work of the everyday” (2001:13-14). Das and Kleinman wrote these words in the context of the South African TRC, but they also resonate in the Canadian situation that unwillingly excludes people in its public TRC rendering. Excluded are those for whom the suffering is too great, for whom the past opens wounds so painful it is unbearable to articulate them, let alone think about them. Excluded are also the misinformed, and those who are simply unable to attend. Finally, excluded are those who resist participation in the TRC in the face of what they articulate as blaring contradictions between government words and actions. Yet those who resist have nevertheless been included in the settlement (unless they opted out of the IRSSA, went to a day school or to a school in Labrador19) and have received compensatory payments. In what is perhaps due to a post-modern paralysis of not “speaking for” or of approaching the difficult terrain of human suffering (Scheper-Hughes 1998), anthropology has so far not addressed Aboriginal perspectives on reconciliation and the IRSSA outside the official spaces of encounter generated by the settlement agreement and its funds. More importantly, (collective and individual) emotions which have been recognised in playing a key role in better understanding how people remember the past, understand the present and consider the future in the aftermath of violence, are not being investigated in conjunction to (and outside of) the IRSSA. From the outset it should be made clear that this book does not aim or claim to provide an answer on how to implement reconciliation. In fact, it takes a step back to consider the IRSSA in relation to the problematic concept of reconciliation, and tries to better understand how Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and those around them experience the settlement by focusing on the emotions involved in the process.

19 | There were five residential schools in Labrador. The reason for their exclusion is that they were established before Labrador (and Newfoundland) joined Canada in 1949.

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

Themes and S tructure of the B ook The first three chapters set the scene to my research and provide the background necessary to the main arguments and findings I put forward in this book. These chapters consist of a theoretical chapter, a chapter introducing the participants and the research site, and a chapter on methodology. The theory chapter outlines my research framework, providing an approach to the anthropology of emotions as well as an exploration of reconciliation through three interrelated key processes: emotions in link to remembering, to the settlement and to healing. The second chapter provides a general introduction to the study participants and the research site. It also provides a historical introduction to the community in order to provide the necessary contextual background to chapters four, five and six which deal with memory. The third chapter mainly addresses methodology and begins with a section on Algonquin discourse, interaction etiquette and emotions. It then outlines the methodology applied to my fieldwork through some main points: gathering data, arrival into the field, ethical considerations, limitations and data analysis. It also examines the concept of generations and how it applies to the participants and my research approach. Chapters four, five and six focus on emotions, remembering and residential school to provide the bedrock necessary for contextualising the IRSSA experiences analysed in chapter seven and eight, and in so doing they seek to better understand emotions in link with remembering the past. This past includes the violence of residential school and the emotions associated to that, and calls for the contextualisation of this violence within a historical context. Through an exploration of the narratives of the past that were shared with me by former students and other elders, chapters four, five and six put forward that the emerging collective memory shaped by the IRSSA (and its historical trauma discourse encouraged through TRC events and AHF programs) is only part and partial to what former Mitchikanibikok Inik students remember of their past. Chapter four and five provide explorations of this broader narrative of the past and the key elements it provides to understanding the emotional conflicts that arose in residential school. More specifically, chapter four explores what Mitchikanibikok Inik elders remember of the past and of their childhood before residential school. It examines what these broad narratives reveals about the Mitchikanibikok Inik sense of self and how this “fits” with the historical trauma framework encouraged in the context of the IRSSA. In so doing, it highlights how participants make use of a bricolage approach to the past, borrowing from trauma and historical trauma discourses while also moving beyond. Chapter five looks at what is known and remembered of traditional Algonquin child-rearing methods while fleshing out “socialising emotions” (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013). It compares and contrasts those with the modus

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operandi in place at the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (“Amos”). Drawing from this, chapter six then examines how survivors remember life at Amos and the emotional conflicts that arose there and were brought home as a result of their re-socialisation by the Oblates (and the Sisters) who ran and taught at these boarding schools. Chapter six also outlines the impacts this process had on their lives after residential school and how it ties in to the emotional suffering and disorientation traceable in the community today. Chapters seven, eight and nine explore emotions as they relate to the settlement and to “feeling better”. They seek to better understand how survivors experience the IRSSA and conceptualise reconciliation. More precisely, they focus on how emotions of distrust (towards the government and Canadians in general) Mitchikanibikok Inik participants revealed in their narratives of the past (see chapters four, five and six) shape their experiences of the IRSSA, along with their self-understandings as resistants more than as victims. Focusing on the IRSSA measures that had an impact at the local level (the financial compensations and the TRC) means these chapters do not focus on the 2008 apology delivered by Prime Minister Stephen Harper, or on official commemoration and healing initiatives. Indeed, participants made it clear form the start that they did not consider the apology seriously and that they were initially not aware of available community funding application possibilities towards healing or commemoration initiatives (at least until 2013). Examining instead the unintended social consequences created by this national reconciliation project while comparing it to others within a more global context, chapters seven to nine draw from other countries’ experiences with similar transitional justice measures so as to make the links between this local experience and the wider theoretical implications it suggests. Accordingly, I argue the “mundane” aspects of the settlement implementation were key and impacted the way participants apprehended the various measures explored in chapters seven and eight. Chapter seven investigates emotions in relation to the IRSSA’s financial measures (CEP and IAP). It explores what is at stake for survivors receiving money and whether they are experiencing these payments in conjunction with the rest of the settlement package. More precisely, this chapter looks at how survivor responses complicate Regan’s claim that financial compensations are necessary, and at their repercussions on the attempted process of reconciliation as promoted by the IRSSA. Chapter eight looks at how, for some Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors, the Montreal 2013 TRC national event became a platform for contestation (for the recognition of genocide, of sovereignty and of land claims). In doing so, this chapter explores the TRC event as an amplifier of the fundamental tension underlying processes like the IRSSA: the competing imperatives of fidelity to emotions stemming from injustice (such as anger or sorrow) and the seeming countervailing need to overcome these emotions

Introduction – Settlement and Reconciliation

for the sake of reconciliation (Ure 2008:285). Chapter nine begins by posing the challenge of local “outsider” perspectives and emotions in link with the IRSSA in order to understand part of the backdrop for Mitchikanibikok Inik seeking external healing strategies. It contextualises these emotions within the local relational dynamics and examines their role in helping or hindering socio-emotional reconciliation as defined by Arie Nadler (2003). It also looks at “feel better” practices and tries to better understand what healing means for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. These final three chapters put forward that, for the Mitchikanibikok Inik, the ‘reconciliatory agency’ of the IRSSA is extremely limited. In the light of the local context, scepticism was high and participants showed that they had to draw from their own resources to implement necessary actions towards “feeling better” outside the official spaces created by the IRSSA.

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Chapter 1 Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

A pproaching the anthropology of emotions Disciplinar y background For a long time divided along the lines of a nature versus nurture kind of debate, anthropologists interested in emotions are now moving away from the polarizing discourse that for so long pitted universalists and cultural constructionists against one another. Described as reductive approaches to the emotions (Hinton 1993), universalism and constructionism nevertheless managed to remain as dominant theoretical positions until the 1990s, and I therefore briefly turn to each before looking at how scholars have since brought them together in a way that is relevant for this research. The universalist approach understands emotions as primarily biological and implicitly innate. Among the scholars supporting this approach (Gerber 1975; Spiro 1984; Heider 1991), anthropologists Hildred Geertz (1974) and Fred Myers (1979) argue that “the range and quality of emotional experience is potentially the same for all human beings, although socialization selects, elaborates, and emphasizes certain qualitative aspects from within this range” (Myers 1979:343). Along the same lines, psychologist Paul Ekman perceives emotions as “affect programs” that are “set off” by automatically appraised elicitors (1980:86-99) and “while the ‘elicitors’ and ‘display rules’ associated with such emotions may vary from culture to culture, the phenomenon itself does not” (Hinton 1993:419). Ekman’s contribution to the research on the universality of basic emotions is considerable, and the anthropological responses to his work show how emotions are at the centre of an interdisciplinary discussion. Building on Charles Darwin’s 1872 theory that humans inherit universal facial expressions of emotion, Ekman and Wallace Friesen’s cross cultural study (1971) found that there were six basic emotions recognisable across cultures by facial body language: happiness, surprise, fear, anger, sadness and disgust.

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Influenced by his work, researchers have since stipulated the existence of anywhere between four to ten basic emotions that can be elicited among all human beings. Yet, while Ekman’s universal facial theory makes sense from an evolutionary perspective (for example we open our eyes to see more when we are surprised), it omits linguistic, social, and cultural specifics. Cultural rules can mask what we can recognise, and anthropologists have since argued that emotions do not correspond to only one facial expression (or to the face alone). Many anthropological studies have also suggested that “the ‘idiom of expression’, which differs from society to society (not to mention among classes, genders, regions, and linguistic and ethnic groups), is more than a mere overlay: it is involved in emotional experience itself” (Leavitt 1996:520). This brings us to the constructionist approach, which defines emotions as a highly variable “aspect of cultural meaning” (Lutz and White 1986:407-408) not to be assumed to be only private and individual. Proponents of this position (Lutz 1988; Rosaldo 1984; Lynch 1990) understand emotions as primarily constituted from culture. What a human being feels is defined by his or her conception of self in relation to other persons, things and events. Emotions are appraisals that depend first and foremost on cultural conceptualisations, or as Catherine Lutz wrote: “[…] emotional experience is not precultural but preeminently cultural” (1988:5). In the presumption that cultural concepts are mirrored in lexical and linguistic representations, part of the constructionist endeavour has focused on working out other people’s definitions of emotions: “In accord with this interest a genre of analysis developed around the explication of emotion vocabulary and the interpretation of emotions as cultural categories” (Leavitt 1996:521). Understanding how people talk about emotions in their own languages, and the effort to translate these concepts and the social processes that surround them, has shown the limitations of Western assumptions about emotions (Lutz 1988, 1990). And as Robert Levy showed in his studies in Tahiti (1973, 1984), not only is what people talk about revealing (what he coins hypercognised emotions) like anger in the case of Tahitians, but also what they do not talk about or have no words for: hypocognised emotions, like sadness in Tahiti. Levy describes unspecific terms Tahitians use in the case of bereavement, for example “feeling heavy”, “demotivated” or “uneasy”. These terms do not indicate any external social causes for emotions and make it possible to classify those as illness or as effects of magic – not emotion. So we see that the translation of emotion-terms, by omitting the physical aspects of emotions (voice tone, bodily symptoms and body language for instance), reduce emotions to a kind of meaning. If vocabulary has been a central interest for culturally oriented work on the emotions, so has the focus on the social nature of emotions and on cognitive and cultural “models” of emotion (Holland and Quinn 1987; D’Andrade 1995). While some constructionist writings (Abu-Lughod and Lutz 1990) implied that “if emotion is discursive, performative, and social, then it cannot be bodily,

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

expressive, or personal” (Leavitt 1996:523), the fruitlessness of this dichotomy has since been posited by several scholars urging for a more encompassing understanding of emotions as both biological and socio-cultural (Hinton 1993; Leavitt 1996; Röttger-Rössler 2002, 2009; Milton 2005).

Emotions as meaning and feeling This book follows the understanding of emotions as involving both biological and socio-cultural factors. This means an approach that avoids dichotomising feelings and meanings of emotions as articulated by John Leavitt (1996). Leavitt, inspired by philosopher Moreland Perkins, argues that emotions inherently involve both meaning and feeling, mind and body, culture and biology (1996:515). He gives the example of what is described as a fluttery feeling in the stomach as being perhaps an anxiety about a public presentation or the result of an unfortunate lunch, or some horrible combination of both. We would not call this anxiety if it were only the lunch. To call an experience anxiety (or anger, or happy excitement) it must be associated with a series of culturally defined meanings that go beyond the digestive. At the same time a description of anxiety is not the same thing as being anxious: to be anxious is to have a feeling associated with the meaning. This view refuses to conceptualise emotions as either pure sensation or pure cultural cognition. As a way around the meaning/feeling divide, Leavitt suggests analysing collective emotional experience through rituals and individual or small-group histories: […] both analysts of ritual and analysts of individual case histories have felt free to seek explanations/interpretations in a great range of material: in childhood memories, current life situations, cultural expectations, myths, definitions, observed emotions, the physiology of bodily movement, and anything else that seems pertinent to a particular case. (1996:527)

This kind of approach is rooted in “a notion that socialized human bodies, bodies that normally exist as groups and in interaction rather than as isolated entities, have their being in recurrent situations that call forth the meaning/ feeling responses we recognize as emotions” (Leavitt 1996:525). In other words, this view highlights the social-relational aspect of emotions. Kay Milton (2005) cautions that the response to the meaning/feeling divide should not limit its understanding of emotions as essentially social phenomena because “feelings and meanings both shape and are shaped by an individual’s developmental engagement with their environment, an environment which is partly, but not wholly, human, social or cultural” (2005:37). Milton’s approach considers emotions as an ecological phenomena, without denying that emo-

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tions arise in social situations (2005:31). Her theory is inspiring because it suggests an understanding of what it means to be human that includes sociality and human relationships with one’s environment – described as “the mechanisms through which an individual human is connected to and learns from their environment” (2005:31). While she postulates her theory of emotions as ecological by arguing against social scientists who understand emotions as social phenomena, I think it is still possible to retain the larger picture she suggests without resorting to an either/or approach. This means defining the term environment as extending beyond the social (Scherer 1984) and including material and non-human entities, like nature and animals. It also means a bracketing of emotions as Western cultural categories that may, but do not necessarily, overlap with the semantic fields of categories used in other societies (Leavitt 1996:516).

Cultural codifications of emotions Leavitt asks what we (as western and western-trained scientists) mean when we talk and think about emotions, and what categories of other cultures we tend to “recognise” as emotions rather than as something else. Birgitt Röttger-Rössler’s fieldwork on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi provides a helpful insight to this question. She looked at gender relations among the Makassar who strictly separate men and women before marriage, an institution traditionally arranged by the family. The concept of romantic prenuptial love is therefore hypocognised and does not seem to exist. But does this mean that the young Makassar do not experience romantic love? Röttger-Rössler answers this question by first exploring what being in love means in German culture and through interviews and self reports with teenagers comes up with the well known symptoms of “not eating, trouble sleeping, continued dreaming, feeling depressed and then good again, having trouble concentrating etc.” (Röttger-Rössler 2002:154). Interestingly, the Makassar have an illness which afflicts young people aged twelve to sixteen called garring lolo, which has strikingly parallel symptoms to the German concept of being in love: “starring into space, being nervous, crying, dreaming of a specific person etc.” (Röttger-Rössler 2002:155). This illness is believed to be provoked by magic (guna-guna) and has to be cured by magic. What is conceptualised in German culture as emotion (being in love) is a pathology for the Makassar. From a rigid cultural constructivist point of view, that posits that individual perception and experience are determined by cultural factors, garring lolo and being in love are two distinct phenomena. Yet Röttger-Rössler argues that in order to understand the two, they need to be compared. She claims that individuals are not only controlled by cultural factors: they also have the agency to design these conceptions in ways fitting to their environment and social order. This means that while garring lolo is conceptualised differently from

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

being in love, they both involve the same psycho-physiological phenomena. Here “emotion is ‘recognized’ as being expressed outside language that is explicitly about emotion – that, in other words, ‘language has a heart’ that is quite distinct from explicit cultural models and vocabularies” (Leavitt 1996:522). What anthropology can contribute to the study of emotions is, according to Röttger-Rössler, the challenge of uncovering these cultural codifications of emotions (“garring lolo” and “being in love”) as well as their social functions. Following Leavitt in his quest for an integrative solution to a long-standing debate, Röttger-Rössler et al.’s (2009) interdisciplinary theory of emotion is the foundation to my approach to understanding emotions in this book. They define emotions as complex bio-cultural interaction systems that develop and change over the course of time. This approach recognises […] that the emotions felt by an individual in a given situation depend on several factors: the particular social context and the corresponding cultural models of interpretation and behavior, the biography and psychological structures of the single individual, and innate physiological processes anchored in human biology (“bodily reactions”) and their subjective perception (“feeling”). The latter, in turn, is partly shaped by culture, just as the expression of emotions is molded by culture specific display rules. (Röttger-Rössler and Markowitsch 2009:3-4)

From their theory, I retain the existence of basic emotions “in the sense of basic emotional abilities that have evolved adaptively to promote survival. These specific basic emotional dimensions (e.g. sorrow, disgust, joy and fear) are, to a certain degree, innate and emerge very early in phylogenesis in all known cultures as well as in some of the higher mammals, particularly the nonhuman primates” (2009:36). They are triggered by innate appraisal processes (Scherer 1994) and expressed in bodily change (for example, breaking out in a cold sweat when scared). Furthermore I also retain that all basic emotions can be modified “over the course of the personal biography (e.g. the lion trainer who displays no fear or flight when approaching lions) and through growing up in a particular society and culture” (2009:36). The fact that we encounter emotions only in their socially and culturally conveyed forms is precisely what makes basic emotions difficult to study in an empirical way (2009:44).20 Röttger-Rössler et al. define non-basic “complex” emotions as “those in which the accompanying appraisal process is either not innate but acquired 20 | According to Röttger-Rössler et al. “it is only very early and very late in life – when cultural and social influences have either not yet (in infants) or are no longer (in persons with senile dementia) formed completely – that we can come close to the postulated basic emotions. Nonetheless, even here they always occur within a cultural context” (2009:44).

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or in which basic emotions are fused in culturally different ways to form more complex emotional schemes. However, this appraisal also involves the acquisition of processes that are likewise shaped by culture (i.e. not innate)” (2009:46). These complex emotions require higher cognitive abilities than basic emotions and an image of the self (2009:40). An arbitrary but characteristic selection of complex emotions includes: anxiety, trust, shame, pride, agape, eros, hate, compassion, malicious joy (gloating), test anxiety, enjoyment, envy, and jealousy (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2009:40). Though I retain the distinction between basic and non-basic emotional dimensions, this book is shaped by an interest in emotions as they relate to culture and social contexts, regardless of their basic or complex attributes. Hence, the most important point I retain from this understanding of emotion is that it posits that every emotion can be shaped by a culture in social situations. Culture influences the intensity of the emotional occurrence, the motor reactions incurred, their potential for being copied, and the trigger situations and regulations styles that are always highly socially defined (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2009:44). Even emotions like joy and fear are habitualised and conceptualised differently across cultures and “as soon as they become shaped by language, higher cognitive processes accompany them” (2009:26). Still, despite my focus on socio-cultural dynamics, the understanding of emotions as biological and cultural is important because it entails considering “bodily reactions” and their subjective perceptions (feelings), that are partly shaped by culture, just as the expression of emotions is moulded by culture specific display rules (Röttger-Rössler and Markowitsch 2009:4). It also requires a shift away from emotions as mere cultural constructs to a comparative perspective like the one used by Röttger-Rössler in her work with the Makassar. It means taking into account the influence of changing societal conditions onto cultural codes of emotions, and understanding emotions as dynamic processes that change over time and through relationships at the micro and macro levels. There have been major societal changes induced by religion, settlement on reserves and mandatory residential schools for Aboriginal Peoples in Canada (including the Algonquins) over the last century. These changes had a big impact on Aboriginal cultures and, it can be hypothesised, on cultural and social codes of emotions. These social and cultural codes of emotion can be understood alongside what Arlie Russell Hochschild (1979) defines as emotion management (also called emotion work or deep acting), which is the way individuals work on inducing or inhibiting feelings so as to make them appropriate to a situation (Hochschild 1979:551).

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

Feeling rules For Hochschild emotion management provides a way to inspect the self, interaction and structure. She claims this perspective provides an interactive account of emotions in the sense that it inspects “the relation among emotive experience, emotion management, feeling rules, and ideology. Feeling rules are seen as the side of ideology that deals with emotion and feeling. Emotion management is the type of work it takes to cope with feeling rules” (1979:551). Hochschild makes an important distinction between what she calls surface acting and deep acting. Deep acting entails emotion management not just on the outside (surface acting) but also on the inside: a way an individual can “guide his memories and feelings to elicit the corresponding expressions” (1979:558). The emotion-management perspective pays attention to how people try to feel, not how people try to appear to feel (surface acting). It also differs from emotion control or suppression. “The latter two terms suggest an effort merely to stifle or prevent feeling. “Emotion work” refers more broadly to the act of evoking or shaping, as well as suppressing, feeling in oneself.” (1979:561) Cultures implicitly or explicitly formulate feeling rules and display rules which can vary within the culture depending on factors like age, sex, and social status. Inspired by a Foucauldian approach to discourse and power, Lutz and others (Cancian 1987; Scheper-Hughes 1992) “[…] claim that discourses of emotions actively construct knowledge about self and society that are ‘implicated in the play of power and the operation of a historically changing system of social hierarchy’ (Abu-Lughod and Lutz 1990:15)” (in Milton and Svašek 2005:9). Failing to successfully manage emotions indicates what ideal formulations guide the effort and can therefore be helpful to decode feeling rules. Hochschild claims that to “understand the origin and causes of change in “feeling rules” – this underside of ideology – we are forced back out of a study of immediate situations in which they show up, to a study of such things as changing relations between classes or the sexes” (1979:557). This last point supports the decision to anchor this research in a framework which begins by asking: What do the Mitchikanibikok Inik remember of the past when it comes to their relation with Canadians (including residential schools) and how do they remember it? Addressing these questions is necessary in order to understand what shapes Mitchikanibikok Inik emotions today in link to the IRSSA.

Emotional suffering William Reddy’s work on emotional regimes and emotional suffering is of particular relevance for the historical contextualisation with which this book begins. Reddy argues that in situations of conquest or colonisation, when a normative emotional management strategy (and the rituals, practices and speech

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acts (“emotives”) that express and deal with emotions) is imposed on new populations, emotional suffering becomes epidemic (2001:126). He defines emotional suffering as an acute form of goal conflict brought on by emotional thought activations (2001:129). Importantly, Reddy also underlines the importance of understanding emotional management styles on the basis of a concept of emotional liberty, more precisely: the freedom to change goals in response to bewildering ambivalent thought activations that exceed the capacity of attention and challenge the reign of high-level goals currently guiding emotional management. This is freedom, not to make rational choices, but to undergo conversion experiences and life-course changes involving numerous contrasting, often incommensurable factors. (2001:123)

This fits well with the idea of understanding emotions as dynamic processes that change over time and, as I will show, leaves enough space for the individual and collective emotional agency that have to be taken into account when analysing the IRSSA process today.

E xploring reconciliation : looking back Emotions tell us a lot about time; emotions are the very ‘flesh’ of time. They show us the time it takes to move, or to move on, is a time that exceeds the time of an individual life. Through emotions, the past persists on the surface of bodies. Emotions show us how histories stay alive, even when they are not consciously remembered; how histories of colonialism, slavery, and violence shape lives and worlds in the present. (Ahmed 2004:202)

To approach the IRSSA and its aspiration for reconciliation from an emotions perspective acknowledges the significant role emotions play in constituting identities and political communities, and it means understanding emotions as central to how conflicts are generated, viewed and solved (Hutchison and Bleiker 2008). Therefore this book begins with a focus on the origin(s) of the conflict by looking at the linkages between emotions and remembering.

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

Memor y as an active process, as personal and social By endorsing an understanding of memory as an active process of remembering, this book follows the idea that “Memories are produced out of experience and, in turn, reshape it. This implies that memory is intrinsically linked to identity” (Antze and Lambek 1996:xii). In this sense “Memory serves as both a phenomenological ground of identity (as when we know implicitly who we are and the circumstances that have made us so) and the means for explicit identity construction (as when we search our memories in order to understand ourselves or when we offer particular stories about ourselves in order to make a certain kind of impression)” (Antze and Lambek 1996:xvi). It is memory in its narrative form that enables us to makes sense of our remembered experiences while at the same time shaping them. The stories we tell about ourselves shape our identity and character: “People emerge from and as the products of their stories about themselves as much as their stories emerge from their lives” (Antze and Lambek 1996:xviii). In this sense, remembering is a mediated reproduction of the past that implies selective re-creation within a socio-cultural context (Huyssen 1995; Antze and Lambek 1996; Argenti and Schramm 2010). In their introduction to Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory Antze and Lambek remind us that “personal memory is always connected to social narrative as is social memory to the personal” (1996:xx). What Antze and Lambek refer to as social memory comes from the notion of ‘collective memory’, the idea that memory depends on socialisation and communication, and that it can be analysed as a function of social life, as was first theorised by Maurice Halbwachs in 1925 (in Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire). Halbwachs stipulated that individual memories are necessarily shared memories (1992:53) and that those can also be embodied within social practices and beliefs. His work led to what has been described as a democratisation of history and of memory (Samuel 1994; Argenti and Schramm 2010:6) with the recognition of the validity of marginal and oppressed voices in the production of history. Towards that effect in Canada, the recognition of Aboriginal oral history as valid evidence emerged with the 1997 Supreme Court ruling in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia. In the case of the Algonquins, collective memory usually goes back about four generations (the elders’ great grand parents’ generation – Bousquet 2002:75), and can be understood as what Assmann called communicative memory: the autobiographical memory conveyed in “informal traditions and genres of everyday communication” (2008:117). It goes back three to four interacting generations and is a form of “living, embodied memory” that can be communicated in vernacular language (2008:117). In contrast, cultural memory as defined by Assmann is about an absolute past that predates about 3000 years, a mythi-

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cal history. It takes a ceremonial form that requires a high degree of formation and is usually mediated in “texts, icons, dances, rituals, and performances of various kinds” as well as conveyed in formal language by “specialized carriers of memory” that imply a hierarchical structure (2008:117).

Memor y and histor y “Mémoire et histoire ne sont-elles pas condamnées à une cohabitation forcée?” (Are memory and history not condemned to forced cohabitation? My translation, Ricoeur 2000:517)

Despite efforts to consider history and memory together (as exemplified with oral history), a long-standing tension remains between the two schools, the questionable reliability (and subjectivity) of memory often being one main cause, and emotions being the other (Ricoeur 2000; Hodgkin and Radstone 2003). Yet, if memory is risky because it can displace analysis by empathy (Hodgkin and Radstone 2003) the complex relationship between history and memory can also be understood as mediated through emotions (Athanasiou et al. 2008:10) in the sense that “Memory – along with its lapses and tricks – poses questions to history in that it points to problems that are still alive or invested with emotion and value” (LaCapra 1998:8). Memory therefore represents “the history that cannot be written” (Lambek 2006:211) and it is “because memory cannot be trusted as history that it needs to be explored, not as a record of the past, but of the present of those whose interests, views, experiences and life-worlds are somehow inimical to or have fallen outside of the historical project” (Argenti and Schramm 2010:3). For the sake of conceptual clarity, this does not mean considering memory and history as opposed, but rather as ‘entangled’ (Sturken 1997; Cole 2001). Still they remain distinct (for instance in their method and aim) while influencing each other: historical consciousness might influence memorial practice and vice versa (Cole 2001). To conceptualise remembering in this sense entails exploring the significance that representations of the past have on peoples’ (present) collective identity, and as further developed by anthropologist Geoffrey White it also entails exploring how memory practices are “used pragmatically to act on the present, to transform emergent social and psychological realities” (2006:331). This is what White calls “memory as social action” and it is closely linked to the politics of memory in the sense that what people do with the past, what they forget or the dominant narratives they enable to emerge, suggests that individual subjectivity is linked to larger projects of political struggle and historical transformation (Cole 2004:104).

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

Tr auma , violence and emotions Scholars have shown that individuals who have experienced an event (or several) that have profoundly shocked them, are prone to have severely disrupted understandings of how the world works. Their everyday lives are ruptured, making place for disorientation (Leroux 2008), pain and feelings of fear, disbelief and even terror. Bonds between individuals, families and communities are broken. In this light, it is often impossible for survivors of sudden violent events to reconcile their experience with the practices and memories that they are familiar with (Hutchison and Bleiker 2008:388). This results in a crisis that has been described by Hutchison and Bleiker as a plunge into pain and loss that leaves one puzzled and incapable of answering key questions or even express felt emotions.

Trauma Though often used with a certain amount of colloquial freedom, the term trauma technically refers to negative events that produce distress, and not to distress itself (Briere and Scott 2006). The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th edition, Text Revisions (DSM-IV-TR; American Psychiatric Association 2000) reserved the use of trauma for major events that were psychologically overwhelming and that generated intense fear, helplessness or horror. The more recent Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th edition, (DSM-V American Psychiatric Association 2013) defines what constitutes a traumatic event more explicitly in the diagnostic features it lists for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and those include but are not limited to, exposure to war as a combatant or civilian, threatened or actual physical assault (e.g. physical attack, robbery, mugging, childhood physical abuse), threatened or actual sexual violence (e.g. forced sexual penetration, alcohol/drug-facilitated sexual penetration, abusive sexual contact, noncontact sexual abuse, sexual trafficking), being kidnapped, being taken hostage, terrorist attack, torture, incarceration as a prisoner of war, natural or human-made disasters, and severe motor accidents. For children, sexually violent events may include developmentally inappropriate sexual experiences without physical violence or injury. (DSM-V 2013:274)

DSM-V also lists indirect exposure (witnessing someone else’s trauma) as a potentially traumatic event. The issue of whether an event has to satisfy the current diagnostic definitions of trauma (as put forward in the DSM) in order to be traumatic, has been an ongoing source of discussion in the field of psychology, along with the debate over PTSD as a culture-bound construct (Summerfield 1999, 2001; Terheggen, Stroebe and Kleber 2001). As chapter four explores in

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more detail, this debate along with other shortcomings identified in the diagnosis of PTSD (especially in link to repeated childhood abuse and neglect) have given rise to alternative concepts such as Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Herman 1992), Developmental Trauma Disorder (Van der Kolk 1996; Courtois 2004) and Historical Trauma (Brave Heart 2003; Gone 2013). What these alternative concepts denote is that understanding disorders of trauma (there are seven, including PTSD, according to DSM-V’s new category “Trauma- and Stressor-Related Disorders”): “is complicated, in that there are constant changes with the individual child/youth/adult (genetically and otherwise) that are further complicated by the individual’s interaction with his/her environment” (Bremness and Polzin 2014). However limited these may be in diagnostic scope, DSM-V describes four clusters for the clinical presentations of PTSD: Intrusion (distressing dreams, flashbacks, psychological distress); avoidance of the stimuli associated with the traumatic event(s) (or efforts to avoid); marked alterations in arousal and reactivity associated with the traumatic event (aggressive, reckless or self-destructive behaviour, sleep disturbances, hyper-vigilance); and negative alterations in cognitions and mood associated with the traumatic event (self-blame, persistent negative emotional states, inability to remember the event). In a following section (still in the PTSD part) entitled “Associated Features Supporting Diagnosis”, DSM-V recognises that “following prolonged, repeated, and severe traumatic events (e.g., childhood abuse, torture), the individual may additionally experience difficulties in regulating emotions or maintaining stable interpersonal relationships, or dissociative symptoms” (2013:276). Incapacity to put words on what happened and translate pain into language is common, and I witnessed this with people who volunteered to speak with me about their residential school days, but then could not. They would describe feeling “blank” or “blocked”. This “blocking” happened with one of the few men who testified at the Val d’Or TRC hearings in March 2013; he spent his allocated fifteen minutes unable to verbalise what he wanted to say. It is in these distressing situations that we realise to what extent emotions associated with trauma are often difficult to communicate. The memories and emotions associated to them might be there, but are sometimes unreachable to the sufferer. Termed under various forms of dissociation in psychology, temporary or permanent “loss” of conscious memory is a common coping mechanism for children or adults in unbearable situations (for more on dissociation and memory see Ross 2009 and Cyrulnik 2012).

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

Childhood trauma Moreover, the adult trying to remember childhood trauma has an added burden. Anthropologist Roberta Culbertson explains that “To narrate a child’s memory is not only to confront the confusions of violence in the mind/body, but to construct a culturally acceptable narrative unavailable to the child, to create in some sense then, a fiction, a story the child never knew, from a perspective that was not part of the original scene or experience” (1995:181). Herself a survivor of sexual abuse in her childhood, she does not mean to diminish harm done and suffering ensued, but only to articulate the idea that childhood memories are hard for the adult to understand “because they are of what the child experienced, without the benefit of adult knowledge, and in a body different from that of an adult” (1995:181). This points to the complexity of dealing with childhood trauma, and the subjectivity of remembering. As Antze and Lambek write: “memories are never simply records of the past, but are interpretive reconstructions that bear the imprint of local narrative conventions, cultural assumptions, discursive formations and practices, and social contexts of recall and commemoration” (1996:vii). The individual experience of trauma in the cases of physical and sexual abuse of children in residential schools has mobilised most of the public attention within the IRSSA context. As a response, it can be tempting to polarise individual versus collective experiences, dismissing individual experience as a tool for pathologising and sensationalising. And to a certain extent, individual experience has already been utilised to mobilise emotions towards a reinforcement of roles in post-residential school Canada: the victims, the perpetrators, and the witnesses. With its fifteen-minute public platform for survivors to give their story, the TRC encourages a focus on sexual and physical abuse. The IAP with its point system also focuses on quantifiable acts of sexual abuse. Both the media (mainstream and grassroots) as well as scholars tend to use language that reveals a binary moral framework of good/evil, victim/perpetrator, settler-ally (and here an antonym has not been termed but a logical inference would be “settler-enemy”). Thus the reluctance of some scholars to address individual harms and suffering, to the extent of ignoring individual trauma by focusing only on the colonial frame (and its perpetuation into current attitudes and politics), which means not addressing the multifaceted intergenerational effects of physical and sexual violence. Yet these effects cannot be separated from the structural violence endemic to most Aboriginal reserves in Canada. This book posits that careful scrutiny of the individualised concept of trauma can result in an exploration of trauma as socially, culturally and politically contextualised without rejecting the devastating impacts of violence on peoples’ psychological situations (see for instance Karin Mlodoch’s 2012 work with

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Kurdish women survivors in Iraq). Emotions, as suggested by Ahmed (2004) in the opening citation, can be analysed as a way to read histories and how they stay alive; “how histories of colonialism, slavery, and violence shape lives and worlds in the present” (Ahmed 2004:202). During my early interviews on this subject matter in 2006, it seemed to me that Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors spoke of their memories without showing any anger, despite referring to themselves as angry. There was no anger in the tone. Was this a disconnection between language and feeling which reflected a traumatic experience? Why did they not show anger? What were the reasons for which I could not always perceive the anger? To approach these questions from an anthropological approach means to analyse the contexts and conditions which are conducive or not for the expression of emotions. When, and in what conditions is it appropriate for Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors to speak about certain things and how? Does it matter with whom the information is shared? It also means trying to understand Mitchikanibikok Inik cultural codes of emotions (including a better understanding of body language, of the words people choose to use, and of their tonality which all encode emotions). A cultural reading of emotions is however not enough and has to be considered along with the social contexts and situated relational conditions and practices (which can be discrepant with regards to cultural rules). The aim here is not to culturally essentialise emotions, but to try to better understand how they are shaped and shared among the Mitchikanibikok Inik, as this has not been the focus of previous research.

Understanding violence As many anthropologists have argued in the last four decades, violence can be understood as a social process, which starts with an acute event and continues after (Nordstrom 1997; Das, Kleinman, Lock, Ramphele and Reynolds 2001; Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois 2004). Therefore “violence can never be understood solely in terms of its physicality – force, assault, or the infliction of pain – alone. Violence also includes assaults on the personhood, dignity, sense of worth or value of the victim. The social and cultural dimensions of violence are what gives violence its power and meaning” (Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois 2004:1). This important point, I argue, should also be considered the other way around: the social and cultural dimensions of violence cannot be considered alone, disassociated from the physicality of violence: they are mutually constituent. This taken into account, I argue that the way survivors remember the residential school violence is embedded in a narrative of a broader everyday violence that was already taking place before residential schools and that has extended into the reserve life today. Approaching the effects, understanding and

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

reception of the IRSSA by contextualising them in the everyday of survivors and their families calls for a comprehensive analytical framework that includes the role of everyday violence in a historical context. Violence is understood not as single acts in the way the IAP quantifies violence for compensation (acts of sexual abuse) but as a socio-political process anchored in history. It shapes the bedrock of the various disconnections Aboriginal Peoples often refer to, encompassing more than the effects of violence on the individual and its psyche: it includes the emotional (and physical) disconnections with and within the community, the family, the language and the way of life. In reality, violence blurs the roles of victim, perpetrator and witness. Recipients of violence often inflict violence in turn, thus we can speak of chains, spirals, or a continuum of violence (Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois 2004:1). Thus the work of remembering reveals different layers of narrative concerning the past and residential schools: official, individual, and collective such as self-defined social categories like “traditional”21. What social categories at the local level reveal is that the layers of narrative are not homogeneous and civil society and local discourses have to be analysed with respect to age (intergenerational violence, community crisis), gender, class relations as well as religious and ethnic identities. For the survivors who spoke with me, remembering residential school was anchored in a longer narrative that started before residential school days and continued until today. In no instance was I ever given only one “piece of the story” – residential school. At the very first, I did not really understand the necessity people had of starting way back, but it soon became clear that their residential school stories were rooted in something much bigger and that this bigger picture is not separable from their residential school experience. To move away from the “master narrative” of the IRSSA and to listen to peoples’ longer narratives raises, among others, the following question (addressed in chapter four): How do Mitchikanibikok Inik narratives of the past fit with the historical trauma framework encouraged in the context of the IRSSA?

21 | In the case of the Mitchikanibikok Inik to be traditional presupposes knowledge of the Algonquin language and the practice of traditional activities like hunting, trapping and fishing (without taking into account rules created by the federal or provincial governments). I use the further useful distinction between traditionals and traditionalists, differentiated in this case by where their home-base is (traditionals tend to live on the reserve and traditionalists in the bush), as well as if they identify with pan-Indian (and New Age) practices and gatherings, or not. It is possible for an individual to switch categories and in reality the divide is more political than religious. It needs to be analysed within a specific historical local context (as is done later on).

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The past as a place of tensions Remembering the past becomes a place of tensions “the past and retrieval in memory holds a curious place in our identities, one that simultaneously stabilizes those identities in continuity and threatens to disrupt them” (Antze and Lambek 1996:xvi). There are tensions for the individual trying to cope with the confusions and violations of the child-self, and the complicated emotions stemming from instances of abuse, as well as from grudges against their own parents, grandparents or towards other abusive students. There are also tensions surrounding the construction of uniform stories through collective narratives that carry the danger of constructing a false public identity and therefore fail to address individual concerns. And finally, there are tensions in the wider societal context: the work of remembering from Aboriginal perspectives weakens the legitimacy of the Canadian nation state. As has been argued by several scholars, by asking people to remember, the IRSSA should ideally be the incentive for a process of decolonisation of the past and present. In the conversations I had with survivors, talk of the settlement provided a new space to consider the past and envision the future. Yet despite its general tone of contestation, this space revealed a seemingly contradictory way of being in relation to the past: one that oscillates the self between victimhood and agency. This oscillation seems to be a common phenomenon among populations dealing with traumatic pasts (Zarowski 2004; Mlodoch 2012), and one that has already been discussed in the case of Algonquins in Quebec by Marie-Pierre Bousquet in an article entitled “Une histoire réparée pour qui? Ce que les Algonquins du Québec commémorent de leur passé” (2006). In this article Bousquet argues that while it is necessary for Aboriginal Peoples to obtain the status of victims via the demand for national reconciliation, they also need to “digest” their past and identify their own contribution to history as active participants. She describes the need for Aboriginal Peoples to reconcile with their past as a condition without which, governmental efforts to promote the reconstruction of a more just history that includes Aboriginal perceptions will partially miss their objective (2006:44). Bousquet’s approach to reconciliation implicitly entails emotional work on behalf of Aboriginal Peoples: the identity shift she advocates through a re-appropriation of the past in order to restore identity-pride involves working through emotions that are associated with victimisation. What do Mitchikanibikok Inik survivor narratives reveal about their senses of self as agents and/or as victims? What do they tell us about the state of trust in past (and present) relationships? In summary, through the focus on emotions and remembering this book approaches trauma or disconnection as a social experience that also impacts individual remembering. It seeks to better understand Mitchikanibikok Inik contemporary cultural codes of emotions in link with remembering the past. This past

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

includes the violence of residential school and the emotions associated to that (which will also be explored by taking into account Algonquin cultural codes of emotion in link with pre-residential school child-rearing practices), while contextualising this violence within a historical framework specific to Algonquin people in Quebec. By exploring Mitchikanibikok Inik narratives of the past, I also examine the tension between agency and victimhood while fleshing out emotions and their implications in shaping understandings of reconciliation.

E xploring reconciliation : looking forward Emotions and settlement The time of emotion is not always about the past, and how it sticks. Emotions also open up futures, in the ways they involve orientations to others. It takes time to know what we can do with emotion. Of course, we are not just talking about emotions when we talk about emotions. The objects of emotions slide and stick and they join the intimate histories of bodies, with the public domain of justice and injustice. Justice is not simply a feeling. And feelings are not always just. But justice involves feelings, which move us across the surfaces of the world, creating ripples in the intimate contours of our lives. Where we go, with these feelings, remains an open question. (Ahmed 2004:202)

The heart of this book looks at the implications of these dynamic emotional rememberings on how survivors experience the IRSSA and understand reconciliation. More precisely, chapter seven and eight focus on how emotions of distrust (towards the government and Canadians in general) Mitchikanibikok Inik participants revealed in their narratives of the past shape their experiences of the IRSSA, along with their self-understandings as resistants more than as victims. Michael Ure writes that “the (unfinished) project of reconciliation hinges on transforming the way political and legal institutions respond to and incorporate emotional responses to injuries and loss” (2008:285). Indeed, many studies have shown the strong interrelation between individual coping (or healing) and the way trauma is dealt with at the socio-political level (Kordon et al. 1995; Herman 1992; Hamber and Wilson 2002). For instance, the way that perpetrator impunity can prolong suffering, or the way ceremony and material compensation can help victims overcome. This brings us to the question: what is at stake for Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors included in the IRSSA?

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Financial compensation Two of the five IRSSA measures consist of material (financial) compensation. To start exploring this question it therefore seems important to better understand the role of financial compensation, and chapter seven will start with an exploration of the meaning and impacts of the two IRSSA financial compensation measures, the CEP and the IAP. Regan claims that the lack of financial compensation to survivors of the Stolen Generations22 in Australia, along with the absence of substantive socio-economic and political change in Australian society, or an official state apology, rendered grassroots and other reconciliation efforts “token at best” (2010:59). Regan argues that despite the wide grassroots movement and the apology eventually delivered in 2008 by former Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, the lack of financial compensation remains a central issue for Aboriginal Peoples in Australia, and constitutes a major difference with Canada’s approach to national reconciliation as a settler nation. This points to a causal link implied between financial compensation and reconciliation. Financial compensation becomes a symbolic yet tangible proof of the will to reconcile; it makes a kind of balance by giving something back to victims in an attempt to sooth their emotional turmoil. It also brings inter-personal reconciliation into the realm of political reconciliation. Yet, as made explicit in the Canadian TRC mandate, payments are insufficient on their own: a meaning and context has to be provided by the TRC (Schedule “N” 10 (A) [c]). The reason is that payments need to be accompanied with an adequate validation of survivor emotions and memories, on behalf of the state and civil society. The danger otherwise is that money is elevated over human dignity and ends-up trivializing the harm or suggesting a payoff for silence (Minow 1998:131-132). In this context, it seems key to ask: How are Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families experiencing the CEP and IAP payments? Are they experiencing these payments in conjunction with the TRC (or the rest of the settlement package)? These key questions have been mostly overlooked in the IRSSA-related literature, reflecting the general lack of empirical studies on the interrelations 22 | The term Stolen Generations refers to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children who were removed from their families from the late 1800s to the 1970s by Australian government agencies and church missions. The Bringing them Home report (1997) claims over 100,000 children were placed in institutions or adopted by non-Aboriginal foster families, though this number is disputed and it has been claimed that about 20,000 (or one in ten Aboriginal child) would be a more realistic number (Manne 2001). Like in Canada at the time, the Australian Government’s intent was the assimilation of Aboriginal peoples, the aftermath of which can still be felt today.

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

between monetary compensation and reconciliation processes. Only a handful of studies mention the correlations between financial restitution and healing and reconciliation after residential schools. Of most interest is the second Aboriginal Healing Foundation (AHF) study on the issue, a 2010 qualitative study that explored the impact of the CEP on over 200 recipients across Canada and found that more survivors described positive types of impacts of payments than negative impacts (executive summary xiv). Though this study does not downplay the amplitude of the negative impacts generated by the money, one serious limitation calls for putting it into perspective: the study took place mainly at AHF project sites. “Hence, the study sample may be skewed in favour of Survivors who have been and who are seeking support and counselling.” (Reimer, AHF 2010:15) It is well known that in the aftermath of shocking violence the inability to speak about the event(s) and associated emotions is a prevailing human reaction, making those who have been able to seek or accept support the exception rather than the rule. This raises questions not only on the nature but on the application (and timing) of the settlement measures. Along those lines Rian Mercer (2011) in the only other existing study on the subject of financial compensations after residential schools in Canada that I could find, warns of the possibility of payments becoming a means of re-victimisation and re-colonisation, claiming this is how Tsawout First Nations survivors experienced it. An exploration of how Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families experienced the two financial compensations entails taking into account how emotions (towards the IRSSA in general, the money and the wider context) connect to the symbolic meaning the money acquired. This provides the groundwork necessary to analyse the implications of their responses in the light of Regan’s claim on the necessity of financial compensations, and with regards to the so-called process of reconciliation as promoted by the IRSSA.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission In the light of the financial compensations, the TRC takes on added importance. Beyond the TRC’s aim to raise public awareness and “tell the truths” of residential school, the TRC is linked to the other four IRSSA measures and the way those work together is crucial for the outcome of the settlement. Chapter eight explores how, for some Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors, the Montreal 2013 TRC national event became a platform for contestation. Building on my empirical data that reveals distrust and resistance as key emotional Mitchikanibikok Inik frameworks, I examine how the latter shape the way the Mitchikanibikok Inik apprehend reconciliation as embodied by the TRC. Moving away from the victim attitude that was expected of them (best illustrated on the TRC website promotion film which shows one weeping survivor after the next), Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors were among those who, at the TRC

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event, argued against the IRSSA design that they perceive as failing to recognise genocide and deal with land issues: in short, these survivors underlined the collective harm resulting from policies that applied to residential schools. In this sense the TRC characterises the place of emotional tensions described by Ure (2008): on the one hand encouraging emotions resulting from suffering and injustice, such as anger, and on the other hand expecting people to “move on” or at least control themselves. Indeed, if “the struggle to feel” is viewed as paramount in the regeneration of selves and communities (Million 2009) and TRCs provide a place for that, they also are very controlled, non-lasting places. How do Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors deal with this emotionally tense process? How does it shape their understanding of reconciliation and healing in (and out of) the IRSSA context? In the opening citation, Sara Ahmed claims “justice involves feelings, which move us across the surfaces of the world, creating ripples in the intimate contours of our lives. Where we go, with these feelings, remains an open question” (Ahmed 2004:202). Though the Mitchikanibikok Inik question the meaning of restorative justice with their involvement in the TRC, the Commission hearings – as well as the payments – were and still are definite emotion-elicitors. How are these emotions shaped and shared? What “ripples” have they created?

E motions and feeling be t ter It has been argued that reconciliation needs both the orchestration of top-down and bottom-up processes (Bar-On 2007, 81), and although the process may begin either with the leaders or at the grass-roots, to be effective it must always proceed in both dimensions simultaneously (Bar-Tal/Bennink 2004, 27). Civil society actors have a special role to play in this regard (Assefa 2005; Kritz 2009; Kriesberg 2007). (Fischer 2011:415)

While examining Mitchikanibikok Inik experiences of the IRSSA, this book also explores their external strategies mobilised towards a better future. It poses the challenge of local Canadian (and Québécois) emotions in link with the IRSSA in order to understand part of the backdrop for Mitchikanibikok Inik seeking external healing or “feeling better” strategies. Nadler (2003) posits that emotional healing requires a full socio-emotional reconciliation process; a process which views the end of conflict as the result of the removal of the existing emotional barriers (these include emotions associated with victimisation as well as feelings of distrust) between survivors

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

and Canadians. What implications does this claim raise when examined in the context of the IRSSA for the Mitchikanibikok Inik in Quebec? Building on chapters seven and eight that explored how IRSSA measures fail to fully address Mitchikanibikok Inik survivor emotions (therefore pointing to a gap in the causal link between truth-telling and healing made by restorative justice scholars), chapter nine starts by scrutinising emotional barriers from a Canadian (Québécois) perspective. Indeed, if one of the elements at stake is the building or rebuilding of trust in relationships (Govier and Verwoerd 2002) whether at the interpersonal, community and national intergroup-levels, it seems crucial to acknowledge the key role emotions play in constructing relationships at all levels of reconciliation and take a closer look at “the settler problem” (Epp 2003; Simon 2008; Regan 2010). Particularly insightful here is Regan’s attempt to answer the question formulated by historian Roger Epp regarding reconciliation in Canada: “How do we solve the settler problem?” In doing so, Regan underlines the importance of reconnecting reason and emotion, head and heart, in an approach that she coins as “an unsettling pedagogy”. She writes: Although the strong emotions engendered by listening to residential school survivors’ stories are potentially decolonizing, they might also create a backlash effect of settler denial or, conversely, generate an empathic response that, although well intentioned, is still colonial in nature. Reframing reconciliation as a decolonizing place of encounter between settlers and Indigenous people mitigates these possibilities by making space for collective critical dialogue – a public remembering embedded in ethical testimonial, ceremonial, and commemorative practices. (2010:12)

In reframing reconciliation as a decolonising place of encounter between settler and Indigenous people, Regan suggests that we must risk interacting differently with Indigenous people: with vulnerability, humility, and a willingness to stay in the decolonising struggle of our own discomfort (2010:13). I thought about the times when our conversations had been excruciatingly difficult, as we went through the process of settling their claims. Yet here we all were on this day; the path we had traveled together to prepare for the feast had built a fragile trust between us. Such feelings do not translate easily onto the page, but to me this is the real work of reconciliation. It is forged in the hard places that our heads and hearts travel to as, each in our own way, we struggle to find a good way forward. (Regan 2010:195)

By sharing her own process of decolonisation, Regan arrives at this reflexive realisation that the real work of reconciliation are these “hard to translate on a

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page” emotions which had built trust between her and the Gitxsan people she had worked alongside to prepare for the apology feast in Hazelton. Regan’s reframing of reconciliation as a decolonising place of encounter between settlers and Indigenous people (2010) and Nadler’s claim that emotional healing requires a full socio-emotional reconciliation process (2003) bring us both back to the importance of considering the emotions shaped in the space (“contact zone”) opened by the IRSSA between Mitchikanibikok Inik and others at the local level. What do these emotions do? How does the work of the IRSSA and local “feel better” strategies connect (or not) to collective socio-emotional reconciliation as understood by Nadler (2003)? While responding to these questions, chapter nine also explores what healing means for the Mitchikanibikok Inik, how it unfolds.

Aboriginal healing and feeling better Reconciliation and healing are usually described as interlinked and interdependent processes. At the interpersonal level, “feeling better” can involve a process of forgiveness between victim and offender, which helps the victim overcome the difficult emotions that keep him/her trapped in the past. As explained by Govier (1998), this need not be a Christian process only: there are secular arguments for forgiveness based on the interests of the victim (overcoming emotions of resentment) and the offender (recognition of intrinsic worth and agency for change as a human being). The prerequisite for forgiveness is recognition of wrongdoing and repentance on behalf of the offender. This becomes evermore so complicated as soon as taken into the realm of national politics, where people are also suppose to forgive and reconcile with past regimes or institutions23. The establishment of a common moral frame of reference for past wrongs, necessary to create a possible dynamic of forgiveness, is part of the work of TRCs, yet their capacity to do this (and their healing scope) is usually overestimated (see Hamber and Wilson 2002 for a critique of the assumption of a national psyche that can be healed via a TRC). Chapter nine will therefore move away from IRSSA-related spaces to explore local strategies towards healing or “feeling better” as defined by Ahmed: “Feeling better is not a sign that justice has been done, and nor should it be reified as the goal of political struggle. But feeling better does still matter, as it

23 | An interesting exception here is the amendment that was made to traditional Jewish theology when it comes to Holocaust crimes. Moving away from the duty to forgive (mandatory in traditional Jewish theology if a wrongdoer has repented), those responsible for genocide during WWII remain guilty of crimes against humanity deemed unforgivable.

Chapter 1 – Approaching Emotions and Reconciliation: Theoretical Perspectives

is about learning to live with the injuries that threaten to make life impossible” (Ahmed 2004:201). There is an abundant body of literature on Aboriginal healing in Canada (St-Arnaud and Bélanger 2005; Kirmayer and Valaskakis 2009; Robbins and Dewar 2011). Focusing mostly on healing programs, it generally articulates a view of healing as anchored in pan-Indian spirituality. Embodying a very flexible understanding of tradition (see Hobsbawm on “invented traditions” 1983), pan-Indianism borrows from Plain societies’ traditions as well as from the Hopi, Cree and Navajo among others. Central to the pan-Indian worldview is the perception of well-being as holistic: the spiritual, emotional, physical, and mental are understood as interconnected in distinction from a Cartesian dualistic understanding of self (mind and body dualism). While the holism paradigm can be criticised for essentialising Aboriginal Peoples – a whole discussion that raises issues of authenticity and identity that I will not get into at this point – it also reveals a “whatever works” attitude when it comes to healing strategies (Waldram 2004, 2008). In a paper stemming from fieldwork at one of the early TRC events in Winnipeg, Marie-Pierre Gadoua (2010) contrasts this First Nations pan-Indian approach to healing to Inuit modes of healing. She claims there is a distinction between First Nations who “seek healing by activating a sense of community that often transcends their specific cultural group or nation, using pan-Indian spiritual traditions and ceremonies” and the Inuit; who “most commonly seek to promote specific Inuit traditions and identity as tools in their healing practices” (2010:168). She claims the Inuit view is ecocentric “meaning that they attribute a central role to connections between individuals, and between individuals and places (the land, the animals, and other beings that populate it) in personal health and well-being (Kirmayer, Fletcher and Watt 2009)” and that “culturally specific ecocentric modes of healing are essentially difficult to reconcile with pan-Indian forms of spirituality” (2010:174). I suggest that to move away from the TRC spaces can shed a different light on First Nations (and in this case Mitchikanibikok Inik) modes of healing that shows how pan-Indian forms of spirituality can co-exist alongside culturally specific “ecocentric” understandings of healing (at least the participants in my research never saw the two systems in opposition). Naomi Adelson’s (2000) work on healing perceptions among the Cree First Nations of Whapmagoostui (Great Whale) shows how Cree well-being or “being alive well” (miyupimaatisiiun) is based on one’s relationship to the land. It calls for a broader understanding of healing within socio-political contexts through which peoples’ concepts of a balanced well-being shifts or changes (Bartlett 2004; Adelson 2009). Indeed if healing is connected to identity, the latter is not something static and can be understood as a multifaceted concept (Frideres 2008:320-321).

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Connection or the need for a reconnection with the land as a way to respond to the past is also something that always came up in the interviews that I did with Mitchikanibikok Inik participants. Being-well becomes about restoring a shared land-based sense of identity, one that has been under constant pressure ever since settler encroachment and that has created divisions amongst individuals and families in the community. Language practice (or “revival”) and bushbased activities are seen as key elements to this process. A closer look at healing or “feel better” strategies reveals how they can also be understood as local ways of appropriating the national discourse of reconciliation and of advocating for reconnecting at various levels. Reconciliation in mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin24 is conceptualised as mino mamwi sewin (gathering in a good way, with good intent). It was explained to me as a process that brings unity through shared practice. A closer look at local practices reveals how places (the reserve, the bush, the gathering) create their own distinct feeling rules that are all part what it means to be Mitchikanibikok Inik today.

24 | This is the local Algonquin dialect spoken by the Mitchikanibikok Inik.

Chapter 2 Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

This book stems from qualitative research carried out mainly with one extended family. Six of the ten Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors who shared their IRSSA experience with me were related as siblings, cousins or aunts/uncles and nieces/ nephews. Besides the three siblings who were part of my initial contact-family in the community, these affiliations did not happen intentionally but confirmed a joke that I often heard when trying to grasp kinship relations among community members: “Oh yeah, ‘so and so’ is my cousin, we’re all related” usually followed by a burst of laughter25. Aiming for a thick understanding of how these ten survivors and their families experienced the IRSSA and understood reconciliation meant involving many others in the research process: their own families (which usually involved extended members), the community nursing station staff and other relevant local participants. As chapter three explains in detail, I carried out multi-sited fieldwork that reflects the distributed living organisation of the community in various bush settlements, on the reserve and in nearby towns. Though I spent most of my fieldwork time with Mitchikanibikok Inik community members, I also interviewed Canadians and Quebecers who stand in various relations with them in order to understand their perspectives on reconciliation and how these relate to the IRSSA. These interviews are central to the last chapter of this book, but as my principal focus was on Mitchikanibikok Inik experience of IRSSA measures, this introductory chapter on the study participants and research site focuses on a general introduction to the community followed by a brief presentation of these secondary participants. To begin, I situate the Mitchikanibikok Inik within official classificatory language and geographical space, as well as provide a glimpse into their understanding of place and origin. I then turn to a succinct explanation of why and 25 | In a description of early memories of her father “incessantly replaying oral kinship stories” of who she is related to on reserve, Algonquin scholar Lynn Gehl (2014) remembers at one time thinking she was related to everyone in one way or another. She claims these kinship stories are as best known as “gi-nwendaagininaanig dbaajimowinan” (2014:7).

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how (in terms of sources) this chapter provides a historical introduction to the community. A third part turns to a brief early history of contact, and a fourth part looks at the Algonquin traditional way of life before Christianisation and sedentarisation. The fifth and last historical part sketches out the broad lines of Mitchikanibikok Inik history since the mid 19th century. Finally, the last part describes the additional participants: Canadians, Québécois and other “outsiders”.

A boriginal N ations in Q uebec and the M itchik anibikok I nik The last Canadian Census in 2011 reported that there are over 1.4 million First Nations, Métis and Inuit people in Canada, which is 4.3 per cent of the overall population. In the province of Quebec, there are eleven Aboriginal Nations: two Iroquoian (Mohawks and Huron-Wendats), one Inuit, and eight Algonquian (Abenakis, Algonquins, Atikamekw, Crees, Innus, Maliseet, Micmacs, and Naskapis). The 2012 AANDC Indian Register reported 80,785 registered status Indians in Quebec, 11,026 of whom are Algonquin. The Mitchikanibikok Inik do not usually refer to themselves as “Algonquins” (they call themselves Mitchikanibikok Inik or Anishnabe), but this is how they are officially classified. About fifty-four per cent of the Algonquins live in nine communities located in the Outaouais and Abitibi-Témiscamingue regions of Quebec, and in one community in Ontario. The rest mostly live in towns or cities, with a minority living in the bush. Of a total population of about 720 people, the majority of the Mitchikanibikok Inik (550 people) live at Kitiganik also known as the Rapid Lake reserve (AANDC 2014). The rest are split between the bush where they live in scattered settlements (no exact numbers exist here but I would estimate at least fifty people year-round) and in mostly nearby towns and cities like Maniwaki (south of Rapid Lake reserve) and Val d’Or (north of Rapid Lake reserve). Though the community is officially registered as in the Outaouais region, their territory straddles the Abitibi-Temiscamingue and the Outaouais regions. Kitigan Zibi is also located in the Outaouais, while the other status Algonquin reserves (there are six recognised Algonquin reserves in Quebec and one in Ontario): Eagle Village-Kipawa, Timiskaming, Lac-Simon and Pikogan, are all in the Abitibi-Témiscamingue region of Quebec. The three communities that are not reserves but are implicitly recognised by the government as Algonquin settlements, Kitcisakik, Winneway and Hunter’s Point, are all located in Abitibi-Témiscamingue. There is only one federally recognised Algonquin reserve in Ontario: Pikwakanagan (Golden Lake).26 26 | Bonita Lawrence lists six areas of non-status (“federally unrecognised”) Algonquin communities in Ontario (some comprising of several bands): Ardoch, Baptiste Lake, Mattawa, Sharbot Lake, Whitney, and Allumette Island (2012:6).

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

Figure 1: Rapid Lake, known as Kitiganik to the Mitchikanibikok Inik Source: Google My Maps, 2017

The seventy-three acre Rapid Lake reserve (AANDC 2014) is one of the two Algonquin communities located in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve, which is located about 250 kilometres north of Ottawa, between Maniwaki and Val d’Or. The wildlife reserve spreads over 13,615 km2 of largely coniferous forest and over 4000 lakes. It is home to more than forty mammal species including moose, bear, white-tailed deer, wolf, fox, beaver, hare as well as over 150 bird species and many fish varieties including walleye, northern pike and lake sturgeon. The main tree species are black spruce, white spruce, jack pine, eastern white pine, red pine and white birch. Archaeological digs have found 3000-year-old Algonquin artefacts in the area, and the two Algonquin communities located within the wildlife reserve boundaries house the only year-round inhabitants on the territory (along with the informal bush settlements). The private outfitter businesses and the governmental agency (the “Société des établissements de plein air du Québec” [Sépaq]) that operate in the wildlife reserve and bringin seasonal workers are only open in the summer and in the fall. These facts, when told from an Anishnabe perspective, are embedded in a different historical understanding. For the Mitchikanibikok Inik, the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve is located on their territory, which consists of over 44,000

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square kilometres of land that they have occupied since time immemorial in what is now known as the Ottawa River watershed 27: The headwaters of the Ottawa River is Algonquin territory. If you go to the east you’ve got la rivière Saint Maurice, which is Atikamekw territory, and further to the east you’re going to have the Innu territory and further to the west you’re going to have the Ojibwe territory. It’s the rivers that determine the emplacement of the tribes, the emplacements of the medicines. (Ogi gwan abik 28 , 48, July 2006, interview in the car on the way to Saint-Marc-de-Figuery)

Figures 2 and 3: Clash of perspectives. Signs at the entrance of the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve and across the turnoff to the road leading to Rapid Lake. Photos by A-M Reynaud, 2013

The many stories and prophecies of Mitchikanibikok Inik oral culture reveal how for a long time the lives of humans and animals were intertwined, how the people derived knowledge from their direct environment and how that knowledge was passed on to secure values so fundamental to the Anishnabe way, such as mdinenjigen (literally: to think about others). This way of life, which precedes contact with European and other settlers, was governed by a system of natural laws as understood by the Mitchikanibikok Inik onakinakewin, the 27 | Unlike geographers, Algonquin people did not use the same name for an entire watershed (Morrison 2005:21). There are many Algonquin names designing various sections of the watershed, for instance Capimichigama designs the lake where the Ottawa river takes its source, and Kichi sipi (big river) is reserved for the lower part of the Ottawa river (Morrison 2005:21). 28 | This is a self-chosen pseudonym that means “face in the rock” in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin. To respect participants’ privacy, all names in this book are pseudonyms. Exceptions are public figures who wanted to be recognised as such, as well as deceased clergy persons and deceased persons who have acquired a representative status for the community (such as former Chief Makakos). The Verendrye Wildlife Reserve and Rapid Lake are real places and these are their real names.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

sacred constitution of the people. According to Pidajemo Peneshish (“messenger”), an elder who lives on the traditional site of the Mitchikanibikok Inik summer gatherings, the onakinakewin did not follow the people to the reserve when they settled. The origin of the onakinakewin, as he explains, comes from a boy who after having spent years in the bush (nôkômuk) had learned all there was to know about the animals, the waters and the forests, and passed these teachings on to the people for safekeeping meant to be passed on from generation to generation. The boy’s footprint is said to be on a rock under the water at Barriere Lake, and this story is kept by the three-string wampum29. For Mitchikanibikok Inik residential school survivors like Pidajemo Peneshish, this is precisely what the residential school system tried to break: the mutual relationship of safekeeping between the people and the land.

G rounds and sources for a historical introduction to the M itchik anibikok I nik This book is set in a contemporary time frame with the exploration of the ongoing settlement agreement (2007-2015). Yet as outlined in the previous chapter, it considers that what survivors and their families remember of the past (and the emotions associated to that) is key to understanding their experience of the IRSSA. Hence the importance of providing a historical introduction that will enable readers to situate the memories examined chapters four to six within a broader historical frame. To do so, this introduction interweaves ethno historical knowledge on Algonquins (Speck 1915; MacPherson 1930; Hessel 1987; Viau 1993; Bousquet 2002; Morrison 2005; Gehl 2014) with historical information gleaned from the rare written sources on Mitchikanibikok Inik history (Matchewan 1989; Roark-Calnek 1996; Di Gangi 2003; Pasternak 2013) and information obtained through interviews with community members (my interview data 2003-2014). 29 | Wampums are purple and white tubular beads made from very small and fine shells and assembled into belts, strings or collars. The assemblage of the beads in either geometrical forms or illustrative forms (human being for instance) are symbolic codes that evoke events and ideas. Historically they were widely used among the north-eastern Aboriginal populations of North America, mostly the Iroquois and the Algonquian. They were used “as instruments of ceremony, negotiation, and as mnemonic documents” (Speck 1919:22). For instance as marriage proposals, condolences, ransom, ornament, message bearers, war or peace signals, gifts and political documents (Speck 1919:32-56). They could also be used as diplomatic instruments symbolising a sealed agreement and the use of wampum belts to this effect for the Algonquins has been documented by various scholars (Einhorn 1974; Joly de Lotbinière 1993; Bousquet 2002; Morissette 2013; Gehl 2014).

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An in-depth historical account is beyond the scope of this short introduction, but it will survey some main elements that are recurrent in oral and written accounts of Mitchikanibikok Inik history.

E arly history of contact There is little written documentation on the Algonquin way of life in the Ottawa River watershed before the 1853 creation of the first Algonquin reserves (Bousquet 2002:72) and even less on the Mitchikanibikok Inik.

Trade networks, alliances and treaties The Algonquins30 were part of a large trade network that predates the arrival of European settlers in the 17th century. They used the waterways for transportation and traded mostly south of their territory with the Nipissings and the Hurons. In exchange for furs and dried fish they obtained wampum beads, tobacco, copper and pottery objects (Morrison 2005:24; Bousquet 2002:68). When the Europeans arrived, they integrated an already extensive trade network and upped the competition between Aboriginal nations: beaver fur was especially popular and the rivalry to obtain this in exchange for European goods led to conflicts between different Aboriginal nations who wanted to control waterways and key trading posts (Bousquet 2002:68; Gehl 2014:29). Starting in 1580 and until 1650, the Montagnais, then the Algonquins31 and finally the Hurons acted as intermediaries for the French (who were not numerous enough) in the trade business (Viau 1993:125). By the mid 17th century, the Algonquins (and the Hurons) were hit hard by settler diseases, especially measles and smallpox, and the Iroquois (Mohawk and Oneida), supported by the Dutch, decided to expand northwards and started a series of raids on Algonquin territory. At the time it was French policy to only provide firearms to the Algonquins who had converted to Christianity (Gehl 2014:29). Defeated, the Algonquins had to evacuate the Outaouais Valley and only started coming back to the region shortly before 30 | There are different hypotheses on the origin of the appellation “Algonquin” (Clément 1993; Bousquet 2002). One is that it comes from the Malecite word elokomkwik, which means “they are our relatives (or allies)” (Viau 1993:111), but Bousquet lists four more etymological origins that are equally valid (Bousquet 2002:63). Whichever one is correct, the word “Algonquain” is found first in documents written by Samuel De Champlain during his first trips up the Ottawa River Valley in the early 1600’s (Viau 1993:111). 31 | At the time the Algonquin Nation consisted of six peoples: the Weskarini, Onontchataronon, Matouweskarini, Kinouchepirini, Kichesipirini and Koutakoutouemi (Viau 1993:112).

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

the “Great Peace of Montreal” was signed in 1701 putting an end to the Iroquois wars (Bousquet 2002:69). The Algonquin alliance with the French was overturned by the end of the French regime in 1760, and former French allies signed a series of treaties with the British Crown. The Mitchikanibikok Inik consider they were a part of the group of Algonquins members of the Seven Nations, or Seven Council Fires, which consisted of Christianised Hurons, Iroquois, Abenakis, Algonquins, and Nipissings along with their “allies and dependents” which included non-Christianised bands (Pasternak 2013:56). As such, they would have been party to the Treaty of Swegatchy (1760) and the Treaty of Kahnewake (1760) which both incorporated the Seven Nations into the Covenant Chain Treaty Alliance between the British and Iroquois. These treaties were peace and alliance treaties that also insured that the parties would respect each other’s land rights (Pasternak 2013:56). As described in greater detail by Lynn Gehl (2014), these were not the only significant treaties of that time that included the Algonquins: The Royal Proclamation of 1763 along with the Treaty of Niagara (1764) importantly ensured that no Indian lands could be sold before first being ceded to the Crown and implicitly assured that Indians owned their lands and that those were protected from exploitation by their British allies (Pasternak 2013:56).

Wampum belts For the Algonquins, those treaties are enshrined in the wampum belt diplomacy tradition that has been kept alive through oral tradition. William Commanda, former chief of Kitigan Zibi (1951-1970), was the last wampum belt keeper from 1970 until his death in 2011. The Mitchikanibikok Inik have replicas of the three belts once carried by William Commanda and consider them central to their collective memory and ongoing land negotiations. Of the three belts, they attach special importance to the 1700’s Welcoming Belt 32 and have been using it as the interpretative framework for the 1991 Trilateral Agreement, a co-management and resource revenue sharing agreement involving their community, 32 | It should be noted that there are two different interpretations for the Welcoming Belt (also called the Three Figure Wampum Belt), which depicts three people holding hands and a white cross. The first is that it records the joining of the Algonquin, Nipissing and Mohawk Nations at a mission established in 1721 at the Lake of Two Mountains (Gehl 2014:30). And the second, which is the one the Mitchikanibikok Inik tell (and the one William Commanda shared) is that the belt represents the relationship of equality that is supposed to exist between the French, British and Indigenous nations (Sherman 2008:122; Gehl 2014:109). According to Pasternak, it depicts through an Indigenous protocol of contract that no interference would be made into Anishnabe ways of life (2013:58).

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Quebec, and the federal government (Rusnak 1997; Pasternak 2013). The other two belts are: the Confederacy Belt (also called the Seven Fires Prophecy Belt) and the 1794 Jay Treaty Border Crossing Belt (Gehl 2014; Thumbadoo 2005:51). Figure 4: William Commanda holding the original Welcoming Belt Photo courtesy of Romola V. Thumbadoo, 2005

By the early 1800’s, more and more trading counters were opening, creating a progressive regionalisation of Aboriginal bands around these posts (Viau 1995:136). Most of these posts belonged to the “Compagnie du Nord-Ouest” which fused with the Hudson Bay Company in 1821 (Riopel 2002:45). An increasing amount of settlers and lumberjacks started to make their way up the Outaouais Valley in Quebec and Ontario. This brought profound modifications to the Algonquin way of life, especially when logging replaced the fur trade and the first permanent European settlements reached the upper Ottawa River in the 1860’s.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

A lgonquin tr aditional way of life before C hristianisation and sedentarisation

Family hunting units The Algonquin semi-nomadic hunting and trapping way of life was organised in family units, each traveling on its own family hunting territory for about ten months of the year, and that came together at a specific site for summer gatherings (Viau 1993:118). For the Mitchikanibikok Inik who used a large territory in the Upper Ottawa watershed around the Cabonga Reservoir, this summer gathering place was Barriere Lake (Nickels 1999:71-72). The family units of up to thirty people consisted of extended family members often spanning across three generations. It was quite common for grandparents to take care of the small children for long periods of time, for instance while their parents went trapping or hunting (Mailhot 1993:133; Bousquet 2002:82). Family hunting grounds were large (it took on average an area of 27 km2 to feed a person, for a group of twenty people that meant a surface ranging from 600 to 700 km2 [Viau 1995:111]) and in principle passed down from father to son (Speck 1915:5; MacPherson 1930:87), though it has been argued that this is rather a “patrilineal illusion” (Désveaux 1994:59) due to the fact that a man best knows the territory (anokîwâki) where his father taught him as a child, and that territorial transmission was rather based on practical survival considerations. Family hunting territories could therefore expand, shrink or even be purchased, though Bousquet argues this term is ambiguous in the literature and could also mean that territories were traded against goods (2002:133). Still, “the family hunting ground is the fundamental unit on which the entire social organisation rests” (my translation, Bousquet 2002:131) and Bousquet further claims that this system, which was in place from the fur-trading days until people settled into reserves, is still very alive for Algonquins today despite the restrictive legislations that disable its practice (2002:131). This indicates that the Algonquin land usage system is adaptive, while drawing the link between territory, its usage (function) and kinship. Drawing from the work of anthropologist Sue Roark-Calnek, who produced the most substantial (albeit mostly unpublished) ethnographic research on the community33, Shiri Pasternak examined how land tenure embodies and inaugurates Indigenous legal and spatial orders in the case of the Mitchikanibikok 33 | A will be explained in chapter three on methodology, during my fieldwork time all band-owned documentation had been seized due to a community leadership crisis and was not available. I therefore regrettably could not access some valuable research materials such as Roark-Calnek’s 2004 (volume 3) report on “The Social Organization of Barriere Lake Land Use”.

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Inik (2013:129): “On the quotidian level of stewardship, tenure is exercised by families, defined by a complex kinship nexus […]” (2013:129). According to Pasternak this “complex kinship nexus” was defined by Roark-Calnek (2004) with the following characteristics: bilateral (blood) kinship; post-marital residence in flexibly constituted extended families; and affinal (in-law) alliance that binds the community together through a network of reciprocal relationships (2013:129-130). This means that accumulated knowledge passed down within families, across families (to cousins, brothers-in-law), and over to families that women married into. Even if there were changes to this kinship nexus after the Mitchikanibikok Inik settled on the reserve (for instance arranged marriage came to an end and kinship was extended through migration to towns), Roark-Calnek (2004) claimed that extended family alliances persisted (Pasternak 2013:130). My data suggests that other key characteristics of Algonquin kinship that Roark-Calnek had identified such as respect for elders, sibling solidarity, generational complementarity and gender complementarity have also somewhat persisted, while having been heavily affected by residential schools (chapter six develops on what I call reinforced loyalty). The importance of the notion of respect as a central value for the Algonquins is also reflected in what is known of the traditional modes of socialisation (“education” or “child-rearing practices”), which are discussed in chapter four and five. Some key guiding principals seem to have been: non-interference (letting children reach their own conclusions), the attainment of early (progressive) autonomy, and “discipline” through humour and teasing rather than verbal blaming and physical punishment (MacPherson 1930; Bechmann-Khera 1961; Hjartarson 1995; Roark-Calnek 1996; Nickels 1999; Bousquet 2012). Children learned mostly by direct and abstract modelling (vicarious learning), and legends and play had a central role in the learning process (Larose 1988, 1991).

Mitchikanibikok Inik: the people of the stone weir Roark-Calnek’s research into kinship led her to compile genealogical records for the community going back to the 18th century (as well as for Grand-Lac-Victoria and Lac-Simon, all held in the archives of the Canadian Museum of History) which traced Mitchikanibikok Inik community members as descending mainly from families who were trading at the Hudson Bay posts at Trout Lake (Des Augustines Lake) and Cawasseicamica by 1827 (Roark-Calnek 1996:158). Drawing from Hudson Bay Company records (HBCA B/221, B/31, B/144, B/96), she established that after 1851 they traded at Cabonga and Nichcotea, as of 1875 at Barriere Lake, and between 1948 and 1954 at Rapid Lake where the community eventually settled in the early 1960s. The summer gathering place of Barriere Lake (some community members still live close by) is where the Mitchikanibikok Inik came to be known as the

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

people of the stone weir: the river there used to be ten to fifteen feet wide (it has since been flooded by the construction of a hydroelectric dam) and the people would put rocks across it creating a stone weir (mitcikan) enabling them to easily scoop fish. The French translated their name into “Lac Barrière”: a literal translation34. But though fishing was important for the Mitchikanibikok Inik 35, hunting large game and trapping were also of critical socio-economic and cultural significance.

Animals and hunter-gatherer worldviews As much research has underlined, animals (especially the bear and the beaver) were at the centre of Algonquin hunter-gatherer worldviews, and still permeate their stories and beliefs (McGee 1950, 1951; Nickels 1999). Hunting areas changed from one year to the next, as they took into account the reproductive cycles of the animals they needed to survive (Viau 1995; Wawatie and Pyne 2010). Discussions around land use are said to have taken place during the summer gatherings (Matchewan 1989), along with the summer feast, weddings and various activities in view of the cold winter (for instance drying meat and gathering wild fruits and medicine plants). As in other hunter-gatherer cultures, dreams and visions were important for hunting as (among other reasons) they could give information about where animals were (Tanner 1979; Brody 2000; Bousquet 2002). The people observed an array of harvesting-related practices (feasts, offerings, disposal of animal bones, divination rites, drumming etc.) to affirm and maintain their relationships with animals and to communicate with their spirits (MacPherson 1930; Bousquet 2002; Wawatie and Pyne 2010). Human behaviour deemed disrespectful towards an animal jeopardised the animal-hunter relationship and the hunt, as the animal could therefore refuse to give himself to the hunter. This worldview, or system of thought, which granted animals interiority and social behaviour analogous to humans also extended to other non-human forms that were alive or considered as such (trees, snowshoes etc.). Like other Algonquian languages, Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin has animate and inanimate grammatical 34 | In historical records, the Mitchikanibikok Inik are also called gens de terres (people of the land), Kakebongang (Cabonga) Indians, Bouryare (Barriere) Indians or têtes de boule. Literally translated “round-head” (from French), it has been suggested that this expression came about in reference to the stubbornness of the “bull-headed” Mitchikanibikok Inik by their southern neighbours in Maniwaki (Bechmann-Khera 1961:1; Rue 1961:27; Roark-Calnek 1992:12; Di Gangi 2003:5-6). 35 | Scot Nickels asserts that in 1999 walleye was still one of the most important food resources for the Mitchikanibikok Inik, along with moose and beaver that all together constituted about eighty per cent of all food resources harvested (1999:112).

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categories (Artuso 1998) said to denote beings and things that are alive or considered as such and that reflect this particular worldview. In the context of his research among the Mistassini Cree, Adrian Tanner demonstrates how “the conceptual opposition between the magical and the common sense methods of hunting are not drawn attention to in Cree thought. […] the two methods are not opposed antagonistically” (1979:207). If all Cree and Algonquin people (men and women) were considered capable of connecting with the animal spirit world and considered capable of “doing magic”, some showed more potential than others and became shamans (Bousquet 2002:93).

Shamans, sweat lodges, shaking tents and flexibility According to Bousquet, elders say shamans were chosen by the spirits and that some had more power than others. To determine the calling to become a shaman (identified through dreams, the ability to attract animals and the talent for premonitions), a person went on a vision quest in a sweat lodge for several days (Bousquet 2002:94). Sweat lodges or madodo (still practiced mostly for healing purposes) are rounded wigwams covered with skins (today usually with blankets) and heated up inside by hot stones (called kokom and comis) brought in from an outside fire. Hot water is poured on the stones creating steam and sweat lodges were also used for other purification (before going hunting), medical and divinatory purposes. Laurent Jérôme describes the sweat lodge as a “travail sur les émotions” (2010:95 emotion work – my translation) for the Atikamekw, and chapter nine will explore the recent (re)introduction of the sweat lodge for Mitchikanibikok Inik children by residential school survivors (fieldwork data 2013) as “emotion work” in the backdrop of the IRSSA. Also in practice in the days of the mandoke (when shamanism was widespread) was the powerful ritual of the shaking tent (kozâbidjigan). With early written accounts of this allegedly Algonquian ritual (Cooper 1942; Rousseau 1953)36 going as far back as Samuel de Champlain (1613), the shaking tent was used to connect with the spirits. The conjuror entered the tent alone at nightfall and sang to the sound of the drum to call the spirits. When a spirit entered, the tent shook violently (MacPherson 1930:11). This was practiced mostly during summer gatherings for divination purposes, and Rousseau (1953) explains that the conjuror called out predictions (he counted about forty) to the audience. This ritual was paid for by someone in particular, and the amount depended on how well known the conjuror was (Macpherson 1930:11; Rousseau 1953:134). As of the mid 19th century, missionaries tried to discourage and forbid this practice (perceived as sorcery or a cheat) and though the shaking tent ritual was discon36 | Algonquian or not, it was a widespread ritual across First Nations. For more on the shaking tent in general, see Duval 2007.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

tinued among the Mitchikanibikok Inik 37, it was practiced again briefly during a traditionalist resurgence that marked Rapid Lake at the turn of the 1980s (later addressed in this chapter). If flexibility was key in territorial inheritance practices (and usage), scholars seem to agree that this word also adequately describes other areas of Algonquin ways of life before Christianisation. For instance, the distribution of tasks between genders (Bousquet 2002:133), and importantly, the leadership system that was in place (Bousquet 2009; Morissette 2013:52). Bousquet describes three historical categories of Algonquian leaders: band or family chiefs (spokespersons), the best hunters and shamans – titles that were not mutually exclusive (2009:57). Ethno historians and anthropologists agree that there seems to have been no hierarchy between individuals and that leadership was rather a reflection of a person’s capacity to redistribute goods (generosity), his/her experience on the territory (ability to manage it) and his/her oral skills (Viau 1993; Gélinas 1998; Bousquet 2009).

F rom mid 19 th century onwards Catholic missions and Algonquin bands: from semi-nomadism to settlement The Algonquin bands as we know them today formed in the 19th century after being brought together, and sometimes apart by illness, alliances and migration (Bousquet 2002:71). Major changes to the Algonquin way of life were quick to happen from 1840s onwards, when the first wave of European settlement and resource extraction swept over the Ottawa Valley (Morrison 2005:31). The Oblates of Mary Immaculate, Roman Catholic missionary priests and brothers, opened their first Algonquin missions in 1843, including one at Barriere Lake. Along with Christianisation came the intent to settle and educate Indian people according to settler ways. While the first Algonquin reserves were created in 1853 (Kitigan Zibi and Timiskaming) the bulk of the rest were created much later from the mid 1950s until the 1970s (Pikogan 1956; Rapid Lake 1962; Lac Simon 1962; Eagle Village-Kipawa 1974). Three are considered settlements and 37 | The last to practice the shaking tent among the Mitchikanibikok Inik was Kishenagosis (“Great Looker”) who had received his supernatural power when he was sent out fasting as a little boy in the late 1840s and who died in the late 1890s (Bechmann-Khera 1964:47). Bechmann-Khera asked her main informant if people gave old Kishenagosis a present when he helped them, she answered: “No, they didn’t. I guess Kishenagosis would not have accepted anything anyway. He just had the power and helped them. He did not do any harmful things to people” (1962:55-56).

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do not have a recognised legal status: Kitcisakik (Grand Lac Victoria), Hunter’s Point (Wolf Lake) and Winneway. In the first major ethnographic study on the transition from semi-nomadism to settlement on reserves for the Algonquins, Bousquet postulates that Algonquins have become déracinés (uprooted) while staying on the same territory (2002:42). She defines this uprooting as temporal and generational (not geographical) and as the result of colonial processes, while underlining the agency of the Algonquins. Little historical research has been carried out on what has also been described as the “alienation” of the Mitchikanibikok Inik on their own territory (Aird 1990 in Pasternak 2013), and besides two unpublished reports that are property of the community (Ogston 1987; Aird 1990 – both in in Pasternak 2013)38 there is only one study (Di Gangi 2003) I could find that provides a historical overview of “Man-Made Impacts on the Community” for the Mitchikanibikok Inik between 1870 and 1979. Drawing from these sources, Pasternak (2013) also provides a brief overview of the community’s recent history of land “alienation” before plunging into the last decades of the community’s political struggles. Therefore for this more recent history one has to piece together from government, Oblate (O.M.I) and Hudson Bay Company (HBCo) archives, along with either specific but sparse ethnographic research (Bechmann-Khera 1961, 1962 and 1964) or broader anthropological research on Algonquins at wide. Still, these meagre (Mitchikanibikok-Inik specific) sources are, on a factual level, mostly in alignment with oral accounts provided by community elders and make it possible to glean a picture of the “largely negative”, “severe and sustained” impacts on the Mitchikanibikok Inik, and on the fish and wildlife populations they depended upon before and during those transitional years (Di Gangi 2003:2). They also make it possible to flesh out the ways in which Mitchikanibikok Inik have continuously resisted non-desired changes imposed from the outside.

Resource overexploitation: introduction of regulations, game preser ves and resistance By 1860 logging had replaced the fur trade as the main economic activity on the territory and had advanced to the upper reaches of the Ottawa River, bringing along permanent European settlement. According to Peter Di Gangi, by 1870 much of the Mitchikanibikok Inik’s traditional territory was leased out to timber companies (2003:4). Timber dams (log flotation dams) and overhunting were putting a strain on animal populations, and in July 1876 Chief Michel Zages of the Bouryare (Barriere) Indians requested reserve land, farming im38 | Again, as community archives had been seized during my fieldwork I regrettably could not access some valuable research materials such as these historical reports.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

plements, supplies and material relief for the ninety-nine individuals of his band (petition, National Archives RG10 Vol.1994 File 6832 Reel C-11, 130, in Di Gangi 2003:5). In response, it was suggested that they relocate to the Maniwaki reserve (RN 1438) and it is not until a year later, as a result of more petitions in the face of mounting epidemics, encroachment and game scarcity, that fifteen community members received a first form of support paid from federal funds and delivered by the local HBCo. “However, although this signalled the beginnings of government relief (which, in itself was sporadic and never entirely sufficient), it did not translate into positive action to prevent or mitigate the causes which led to the scarcity of game. Encroachments were to continue and accelerate in ensuing years.” (Di Gangi 2003:6) In response to a Quebec Lands and Forests Report of the early 1890s describing evidence of over-hunting in the region, the Government of Quebec introduced a number of measures intended to restrict, regulate and control access (Di Gangi 2003:7). The 1894 Fish and Game Act set closed seasons for big game, fur bearers and fowl. It introduced hunting permits that for the cost of $5 CAD allowed people to hunt more. It also provided exclusive rights to areas of water and land to “Fish and Game Clubs” (private outfitter businesses) who in exchange had to assist the government in implementing the new regulations (while providing club members with a fifty per cent discount on licenses). A year later, the act was revised and closed the beaver season for five years (until 1900). Indian Affairs tried to intervene on behalf of “the Indians of the Province of Quebec who […] derive their livelihood mainly from the trapping of beaver” and for whom the prohibition of beaver trapping would bring “great destitution” (Di Gangi 2003:9). This did not yield any consideration on behalf of the provincial government and instead the closed beaver season was extended to 1905. Traffic of beaver skins was also made illegal, but as Mitchikanibikok Inik elders recall, this never stopped their grandparents from trapping and hunting anyways39. Still, they were affected by the bans, along with the effects of sports hunting on animal populations, sickness, and dams flooding their territory. As conditions continued to deteriorate into the 1920s, steps were taken by the Oblates and the HBCo “with Indian Affairs getting involved after the fact” to pressure the Quebec government into action and asking for “land made exclusive to the Indians” (Di Gangi 2003:15). 39 | There are also interesting early written records of this resistance, for instance Di Gangi (2003) found an 1897 letter on the topic of the extension of the beaver ban from HBCo Commissioner Chipman to Indian Affairs that reads: “As you are aware, the Indian regards his right to hunt as one which cannot be taken from him, and he will therefore, with Permit or no, take beaver if he considers it at all necessary” (NAC RG10 Vol.6750 File 420-10: Quebec Game Laws (Government Publications) 1895-1926: Chipman to Reed, 7 January 1897 (RN 1501) in Di Gangi 2003:9).

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In 1928, a Quebec Order-in-Council established an Indian game preserve meant to address the issue of resource overexploitation by settlers. Beaver preserves were created shortly after, from 1932 until 1954, including the Abitibi Beaver Preserve (4,000 square miles) in 1943 and the Grand Lac Victoria Beaver Preserve (6,300 square miles) in 1948. The Abitibi Beaver Preserve is a prolongation of the 1928 game preserve (Bousquet 2005:60). The Grand Lac Victoria Beaver Preserve, centred mostly on the traditional territories of Barriere Lake, Lac Simon and Grand Lac Victoria, prescribed that “Indians only may hunt fur-bearing animals” there. However no substantive steps were taken to make this a reality (Di Gangi 2003:17; Matchewan 1989:149; Pasternak 2013:63) and to make matters worse, in 1928-29 the Gatineau Paper Company (a subsidiary of the Canadian International Paper Company [CIP]) started constructing dams to form the Cabonga reservoir on an area of about 100 square miles on Mitchikanibikok Inik territory. Draining an area of 1,050 square miles to create a holding capacity of forty-three billion cubic feet, the construction of this reservoir and subsequent flooding resulted in the relocation of the Barriere Lake (summer) settlement and the damaging of two Mitchikanibikok Inik cemeteries (Ogston 1987:65 in Pasternak 2013:62). The CIP compensated the fourteen people who lost their cabins at Barriere Lake, giving to each about $30 CAD (Richardson 1993:121). The Cabonga reservoir was followed by the construction of the Baskatong reservoir, with its additional dams to provide power to CIP mills, major flooding and the dangerous, unpredictable fluctuation of water levels all year round. According to Pasternak, early records show that the Mitchikanibikok Inik did what they could to stop the flooding of their territory. She mentions a 1932 document written by Hugh Ray as he travelled up the Ottawa River to take charge of the Kakabonga Hudson Bay Company Post. He describes with astonishment that the Indians had cut away half of a dam “likely with bare hands or wooden instruments, in order to release the waters from the foot of Lac Barrière Du Sud. The people of the stone weir were resolute in the persistence of their traditional harvesting techniques despite interventions on their lands” (Pasternak 2013:63).

The highway “Fish and Game Reser ve” and the creation of traplines Major disruptions were quick to happen after the completion of the Mont Laurier-Senneterre highway cutting through the territory in 1939 (now the 117 highway). A twenty-mile wide corridor stretching out ten miles on both sides of the road was removed from the Grand Lac Beaver Preserve by way of Order-in-Council thus revoking all Indian “privileges” in the area now designated as the Mont-Laurier-Senneterre Highway Fish and Game Reserve (Matchewan 1989:150; Di Gangi 2003:24). Hunting and fishing were forbidden for everyone including the Algonquins inside this new reserve “whose purpose was declared

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

to be ‘to protect game and fish against abuses, so that this region may permanently answer to the requirements of the tourist trade’” (Richardson 1993:122). In 1941, Canada and Quebec signed an agreement banning Indians from camping, hunting and fishing (they were allowed to trap in the winter) within this tourist-friendly corridor that would expand considerably over the years (Di Gangi 2003:25-26). “The unspoken assumption was that, if sighted, the Algonquins might scare away the whites. The racist ploy failed regardless, as the Algonquins refused to avoid the corridor, and enforcement proving futile, was abandoned.” (Pasternak 2013:63) Like other Canadian provinces around that time, Quebec introduced registered traplines in 1945. This affected areas adjacent to the hunting preserves still used by the Mitchikanibikok Inik, and this new way of regulating access to small fur-bearing animals further broke up their traditional land base with the imposition of arbitrary boundaries (Di Gangi 2003:31; Pasternak 2013:63). Government archive reports describe the Indians in the Barriere section as antagonistic and non cooperative (in complying to trapline and hunting preserve regulations such as providing numbers for demographic purposes and maps of their hunting territories) as opposed to other Algonquin bands (1942 and 1943 reports by Indian Affairs Fur Supervisor Hugh Conn, former HBCo Post manager at Barriere Lake, cited in Di Gangi 2003:27-29)40. As a result, they were increasingly harassed by gamekeepers who did not hesitate to take their game, pelts and harvesting equipment away, and by the late 1940s they had started to rely on a mixed economy to supplement their traditional livelihoods (Bechmann-Khera 1964:63). Wage labour employment included trapping, working as seasonal “skinners” in mink farms in the United States, cutting pulpwood for the CIP and guiding (moose) hunters (Bechmann-Khera 1964:64; Pasternak 2013:64 citing DIAND QRO File 373/23-4 Vol.2).

The “Parc de la Vérendr ye”, the new Catholic mission and settlement at Rapid Lake In 1950, the now-stretched corridor of Mont-Laurier-Senneterre Highway Fish and Game Reserve became an official park and obtained its name: “Parc de La Vérendrye”. Around that time, the HBCo and the Catholic Oblate (O.M.I) mission decided to move from Barriere Lake to Rapid Lake to be closer to the 40 | Oblate archives from those years also portray the Mitchikanibikok Inik in opposition to other Algonquin bands as “Indiens endurcis et peu pratiquants” (hardened and hardly practicing Indians – my translation) while Grand-Lac-Victoria or Lac-Simon Indians are depicted as “religieux et soumis” (religious and submissive) and as “bons et soumis” (good and submissive) (1947 Catholic mission document “Missions des Indiens – Missions des Chantiers Abitibi et Temiscaming, Cahier Postal 490”).

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road, abandoning the old wooden church at Barriere Lake, which had been used for daily mass during one month in the summer (Bechmann-Khera 1964:2-7; 1961:21). They built a new church and a Roman Catholic mission house between the HBCo trading post41 and the Rapid Lake settlement, which consisted of canvas tents and “shacks” (wooden cabins), often in combination as the tents were on a wooden base and connected to the front or back door (Bechmann-Khera 1961:3). In a series of ethnographic research reports commissioned by the National Museum of Canada in 1961, 1962 and 1964, Bechmann-Khera provides an ethnographic account of the Barriere Lake Algonquins during these years of major transition to a more sedentary life, she writes: “Though their original culture is still more or less intact these Indians are now in the stage of giving up their old way” (Bechmann-Khera letter to McFeat, 9.13.1961). At the time when Bechmann-Khera visited Rapid Lake, most families (about 160 people) were still wintering on traplines away from the settlement, hunting, fishing and harvesting traditional medicines. Only the elderly Mitchikanibikok Inik chief, David Makakos (born in 1879), remained at the old Barriere Lake site in the summer, and “his continuous absence from the band, and later also his badly impaired hearing, practically abolished his influence upon the affairs of the band” (Bechmann-Khera 1964:7 and 41). She describes the general “attitudes against white officials” as “passive resistance […] quite successful in preventing white officials to interfere in affairs of the band” (1964:49). In 1951, Josephine Monatch, an Algonquin woman originally from Maniwaki but who had married into the Mitchikanibikok Inik community, opened a simple summer school in Rapid Lake at the request of the missionary. Four years later, after a social worker brought the tent school to the government’s attention, a one-room school building was erected. Monatch took a teacher’s course and as of 1955 was employed by the government. She taught the children in English but could also explain things in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin if necessary (Bechmann-Khera 1962:13). In 1961 Rapid Lake acquired both the legal status of a reserve (fifty-nine acres) and new cabins built by the government. As chapter five will explore in detail, it was following a governmental decision in 1962-63 that children from the age of five were first sent to the French-speaking Indian Residential School of Amos located at Saint-Marc-de-Figuery, 130 miles north of Rapid Lake (Bechmann-Khera 1964:9)42 . This was one of the four schools in Quebec that was 41 | Due to the decline in price and demand for fur the HBCo closed its unprofitable trading post at Rapid Lake in 1954 (Bechmann-Khera 1964:8). 42 | As explained in the introduction, a first generation of Mitchikanibikok Inik children was also sent to two English-speaking residential schools in Ontario: Spanish and StMary’s (Kenora) in 1950.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

run by the Oblates of Mary Immaculate, the same Roman Catholic community who sent a priest to Rapid Lake to say mass once a month in the summer (Bechmann-Khera 1961:21). According to a 1970s Quebec Regional Office of Indian Affairs assessment (cited in Di Gangi 2003:37), about forty Mitchikanibikok Inik children (out of a total population of 240 people) were sent to Amos, as former students from the community often call the school because of its proximity to the town of Amos. Drawing from the number of former students still alive, the community today estimates that over eighty children attended Amos (note that there is no official school list so no precise numbers are available). From 1962-1972 the children schooled at Amos only came home during the summer and sometimes at Christmas. According to Bechmann-Khera (1964), in 1964 a summer school was held at Rapid Lake for the older children (ten to thirteen years old), and then the local school was closed until 1971-72. When it reopened the language of instruction was English and the community had no say on curriculum until the early 1980s (Matchewan 1989:153).

From park to “wildlife reser ve” and the 1980’s traditionalist resurgence Deforestation peaked after 1979 when the Verendrye Park became a Wildlife Reserve (what it is known as today) under the new modern day administrative regions of the Outaouais and Abitibi-Témiscamingue, that gave the province administrative oversight over resource extraction and land management. Effectively, the wildlife reserve classification opened it up to much more radical (mechanised) logging and by the mid 1980s more than fifty per cent of the Verendrye’s boreal forest was already clear-cut or partially logged (Shenkier and Meredith 1997:72)43. Residential school coupled with the mounting destruction of their habitat, an integral component to their hunter-gatherer worldview, as described earlier, made the Mitchikanibikok Inik particularly vulnerable to the events that would transpire in the early 1980s. Those events are still mostly kept silent in the community, as a movement that had started as an empowering traditionalist resurgence ended-up creating a major local crisis. As described in detail in Jean Merveille’s doctoral thesis (1987:225-236), in August 1979, the community welcomed a self-proclaimed Ojibway prophet and his two followers whose millenarian vision proclaimed 43 | This means a lot of the current flora is re-growth. It is the second largest territory managed by Sépaq, that rents outs basic cabins for hunters and fishermen and sells the permits which allow people to camp on designed grounds, canoe, fish or hunt on the territory. These costly permits are by the day, and the hunting and fishing activities of visitors are controlled by game wardens.

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Rapid Lake had been chosen as the last island of peace and love in a world condemned to soon disappear (my translation, Merveille 1987:227). Press archives from the early 1980s report that the prophet declared the world was ending and only the inhabitants of Rapid Lake would survive “if they repented and returned to the traditional ways” (The Ottawa Journal, January 26th 1980). The impacts of “the movement” as it came to be called, were at first seemingly positive: alcohol consumption, which was reportedly high in the community, almost stopped and practices that had disappeared such as the shaking tent were practiced again. But the prophet and his followers were quick to move into the community and start using their influence far beyond spiritual guidance matters. With a strong hand in the band council, they had the reserve school closed, all crosses removed from the local cemetery and Church (causing the departure of the priest)44 and banned “modern” medical care (doctor, dentist, nurse) from coming to the reserve (and also forbade people from the reserve from going to the hospital etc.). This resulted in preventable medical catastrophes and eventually escalated into an episode of violence that harmed a community member who, along with a few other families, had not been follower of “the movement”. His skull was cracked opened with an axe and the prophet was charged with assault. According to Merveille, this incident was used by a group of younger opponents, backed by a functionary working for the Ministry of Indian Affairs, to gain political capital and become the new band council in what Merveille described as a “coup d’État” (1987:233). The old band council, still in support of the prophet and his followers, left the reserve and thus began a big rift in the community that is still felt today. This fracture impacted the community in many ways and created blockages regarding the practice of “traditional” ceremonies for some people who equated ceremonies with “the movement” and its atmosphere of control. It also marked the beginning of escalating internal political disputes and governmental interventions, so strong and still painful for respondents who spoke to me. These internal political struggles coupled with the deforestation of their territory in spite of various community-led efforts created what was described to me as a state of anomie. This unrest or social instability was prevalent on the reserve when I conducted most interviews in the summers of 2010, 2011 and 2013, and it manifested itself in various ways. For example in the way feasts were carried out mostly within family circles or political coalitions, as well as in the way public spiritual practices were withheld.

44 | On November 22 nd 1979, the Band Council passed a resolution renouncing the Barriere Lake Band from the Roman Catholic Religion.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

Most of the Mitchikanibikok Inik today live at the Rapid Lake reserve, and many still speak their local Algonquin dialect45 and practice hunting, trapping and fishing activities. They gather berries, maintain their sugar bushes and still use certain traditional medicines from plants (leaves, roots and sap) that they harvest in the bush. It is this shared sense of relationship to the land that unites the community, known for its activism when it comes to environmental issues: they have often been in the media for blocking roads against logging companies (the 117 as well as smaller logging roads) and their capacity to mobilise against land and resource exploitation on their territory has increasingly gained grassroots provincial support in the light of Quebec’s 2012 student movement and the 2013 “Idle no More” Aboriginal protest movement that spread beyond Canadian borders (see chapter nine).

R apid L ake (K itiganik) In the existing research, Rapid Lake is often portrayed as “traditional”, poor46, and like many other Aboriginal communities: with high levels of unemployment, overcrowded homes (about sixty mostly run-down houses for a population that oscillates between 300 and 500 people depending on the season), high levels of substance abuse and the health and social problems that come along with that. Suicide rates are relatively low compared to other Algonquin communities, however clinic staff and “insider outsiders” (about half of the Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents in this study self-identified this way: some still work on the reserve but none live there anymore) describe violence levels as very high. It is one of the few communities in Quebec that has not been granted the capacity to take charge of its own health services. The federal government considers the community’s governance as too unstable and the health staff and clinic administration are still under the authority of Health Canada (my translation, Lévesque 2013:77). The Health Centre (nursing station) opened since 1949 and recently rebuilt, provides basic health services as well as medical transport to the doctor or the hospital if required. It also has a day centre where health promotion activities and workshops can take place. This is the only inside social 45 | English is the next most spoken language and French is also spoken by some elders who attended the French-speaking Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-deFiguery. Most can also understand Cree and other Algonquian-based languages. Informants note a decline in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin proficiency, especially among the last generation. 46 | According to a Federal Courts Act “Applicants Memorandum of Fact and Law” the socio-economic conditions at Rapid Lake are so poor that they received the lowest point score on the human development index (File No. T-1514-06, 2008:17).

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space open for community members during the day, as the reserve has no recreation, shopping or eating facilities. In this sense, and compared to other Algonquin reserves, Rapid Lake is not economically developed and accessing services is not easy, the nearest supermarket is at least sixty-two miles (100 km) away. A small convenience store (a dépanneur) is open at Domaine from May to September and reserve folks also sometimes buy food (eggs, bacon, bread, chips and soft drinks) and gas at the private outfitter business adjacent to the reserve (there are five in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve) also only open from May until September. This remoteness and lack of basic economic infrastructure creates what Marie-Josée Lévesque describes as a “food insecurity” in the community (2013:81): with up to eighty per cent of community members dependent on social assistance as their main source of income (Federal Courts Act File No. T-1514-06, 2008:17), the distance (and associated gas costs) to the supermarket is an added barrier to their already precarious (financial and nutritional) situation. Children get served food in the school, which takes pre-school (age four) children until the end of elementary (according to INAC in 2008-2009 there were sixty-five children enrolled in the school47). The management of the school was transferred to the Band Council in 1995 and follows the provincial curriculum. It was closed during a very tense year on reserve in 1996 and again for four months starting late November 2007, reflecting the invasiveness of the leadership/political struggles on all aspects of Mitchikanibikok Inik life including education. Youth of age for secondary school go to the nearest cities, mostly to Val d’Or and Kitigan Zibi (according to INAC in 2008-2009 there were forty one teenagers enrolled in a provincial secondary school48), but the dropout rate is very high. English and French literacy levels are low and community members have been described as having chronically low levels of education: “in 1995, when DIAND (Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development) was operating the Rapid Lake School, students were behind by two or three years creating a significant age to grade deficit” (Federal Courts Act File No. T-1514-06, 2008:18-19). In addition to the day centre and the elementary school, there is a day-care centre in the old church for children ages three or more with working parents and a gym (mostly used for youth sports activities like volley-ball) only open under supervision.

47 | For this source see the Commission de Développement Economique des Premières Nations du Québec et du Labrador (CDEPNQL) – document available online and last accessed on December 21 st 2014: http://www.cdepnql.org/pdf/RAPNQ/The%20Al gonquins.pdf 48 | Ibid.

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

Figure 5: Church now turned into a day-care, Rapid Lake Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013

The overall communal infrastructure is poorly developed: the reserve roads are unpaved, the local water supply is purified with a monthly dose of chlorine and the provision of electricity comes from diesel generators whose operation is financed by AANDC (the reserve is not connected to the Hydro-Quebec grid). As argued by Bousquet (2002), the reserve may present itself as a closed world, with people who are all related to each other and where non-Aboriginal people do not stay long, but it is also constantly linked to two other realities: the city (where Mitchikanibikok Inik have to go to shop, go to school as of grade seven or to see a doctor) and the bush. “It is not possible to understand why the Algonquins are attached to reserves without taking into account these two environments. It is with a global apprehension of these different places that it becomes possible to analyse Algonquin identity representations, behaviours and social structure.” (My translation, Bousquet 2002:267) In the next chapter, I will explain how this particularly applies to the Mitchikanibikok Inik, a traditionally decentralised society of whom a large portion actually live full time and part time in scattered settlements in the bush.

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A dditional participants : C anadians , Q uébécois and other “ outsiders ” Before moving on to the methodology, this introduction to the study participants and research site would be incomplete without a brief description of the rest of the research participants (twenty people). As exemplified by the “insider outsider” half of the Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents (band members who did not feel fully “accepted” on reserve, despite that some worked there), people can self-identify across several categories and the us/them divide often exists just as much within groups of people as between them. In this study, those who did not self-identify as Mitchikanibikok Inik also defied being put into neatly bound boxes and are involved in diverse rapports with various community members. These respondents either live and/or work or carry out solidarity activities on the territory. Of these twenty people, one portion, about half describes itself as in solidarity with community members. A large majority of the solidarity people do not live in the area and do not have professional or business relationships with the Mitchikanibikok Inik. They are mostly either linked to community members on reserve via a Toronto/Montreal-based solidarity group against the Indian Act; or they are linked to off reserve community members via anti-logging forest gatherings, spiritual get-togethers or through more personal relationships. These people are all committed citizens in the sense of socio-political activism and/or support, and they self-identify as Canadians (out of province); as Quebecers or Québécois49; or as First Nations or Métis. As they do not partake in business or professional relations with various Mitchikanibikok Inik community members, these ‘in solidarity’ respondents are not representative of the local Québécois (or Canadian out of province) population who works and/ or lives in that area and who constitute the rest of the interviewees (nine people). There are actually very few people in total who work and/or live in that area, and with the exception of the four Québécois clinic staff members and the three teachers (Canadians but not Quebecers) who work in the reserve’s elementary school, none (besides in solidarity spouses/partners, three that I am aware of) live all year-round on the territory as tourism and hunting activities only run for half of the year when the weather permits (both Sépaq and private outfitter businesses are closed from the end of September to early May). Nevertheless these are the people who are, geographically speaking, in closest proximity to the Mitchikanibikok Inik population. Besides these professionals 49 | Note that I use the term Québécois (despite writing in English) in reference to the Francophone inhabitants of the province of Quebec to avoid erasing the historical-political context. I use the term Quebecer in reference to the overall provincial population (including Anglophones).

Chapter 2 – Mitchikanibikok Inik: The People of the Stone Weir

who are based almost full time (teachers, health workers) or part-time (tourism industry workers) on the territory, another important respondent was a lawyer who has worked with community members both on and off reserve and in link to IRSSA financial compensations.

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Chapter 3 On being the right way in the Field

Doing anthropological research since the Writing Culture debate (Clifford and Marcus 1986), also known as the discipline’s “crisis of representation”, means engaging with questions pertaining to positioning, representation and involvement. A response from anthropologists has been to engage in a reflexive practice that builds on long-term research. For me, being the right way with people and with the land was an utmost priority. Being in the field shaped my exploration of the emotions that surround the IRSSA, and that become manifest between the various actors (including myself) active in the so-called reconciliation process. Scholars have long supported the idea that discourse is not purely a linguistic notion; it is an interactional one as well (Blass 1990; Spielmann 1998). This chapter on methodology therefore begins with a section on Algonquin discourse, interaction etiquette and emotions. I then provide a general introduction to the methodology applied to gathering data, my arrival into the field, and the ethical considerations specific to this research50. A fifth section examines the concept of generations and how it applies to the Mitchikanibikok Inik and the approach in this book. The two final sections address fieldwork limitations and the methodology applied to analysing data.

A lgonquin discourse , inter action e tique t te and emotions In his book ‘You’re so fat!’: Exploring Ojibwe Discourse, Anthropologist Roger Spielmann provides a helpful outlook on how “Native discourse” has been approached both by linguists and anthropologists, putting to the fore the ways 50 | Note that a few of the points this chapter makes on Algonquin discourse and my methodology will be published in 2017 as part of an article titled “Understanding Reconciliation through Reflexive Practice: Ethnographic Examples from Canada and Timor-Leste” in the book Ethnographic Peace Research: Decolonizing Methodology edited by Gearoid Millar, London: Palgrave MacMillan.

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in which analysing culture-specific ways of speaking and interacting can help shed an understanding onto basic cultural differences which exist between Native people and non-Natives (1998:27). In this sense discourse (broadly understood as oral, written and gestural communication) provides a window onto ways of thinking, feeling and doing. Coming-up in chapter four are Mitchikanibikok Inik communicative and cultural memories. These were shared with me in a form that qualifies as narrative discourse, one of six main discourse types that linguists agree upon (the others are procedural, hortatory, expository, argumentative and conversation [Spielmann 1998:151]). Spielmann defines narrative discourse as recounting a series of events usually ordered chronologically and in the past tense (1998:151). Opting for a broad approach to discourse and coupling it to the analysis of narratives means retaining the importance of non-verbal repertoires that are common in Aboriginal societies (Ferrara 2004).

Rules of behaviour: non-interference, indirect questioning and formal speech In the literature, non-verbal repertoires are often synonymous with the exploration of rules of behaviour (interaction etiquette) and of emotional expression. Early important work on Cree interactional etiquette was carried out by linguistic anthropologist Regna Darnell (1979, 1982) who described the mechanisms at work in formal speech and conversation (for instance indirect questioning, pausing etc.) and looked at the implications those had on cross cultural relationships and education. Among these lines and drawing from twenty-four years of medical practice with Quebec and Ontario Iroquois, Ojibway and Cree groups, later work was carried out by Mohawk psychiatrist Clare C. Brant (1990) who argued that patterns of conflict suppression, conflict projection and a humiliating superego51 are all techniques meant to promote group cohesion that can be found in “Native culture”. Despite having been criticised for overgeneralising his findings, his main points emerge in successive works in this domain among the Crees (Ross 1992; Preston 2002; Ferrara 2004), the Algonquins and the Odawa (Spielmann 1998) or across other First Nations communities like the Ojibwe (Ross 1992).

51 | Brant explains the humiliating superego as stemming from the child-rearing practices of teasing, shaming and ridiculing, which can produce “social shyness that sometimes verges on terror. This is functional in that it keeps young people attached to the group, promoting group unity and survival” (Brant 1990:538).

Chapter 3 – On being the right way in the Field

Brant lists four mechanisms as key for conflict suppression52: non-interference, non-competitiveness, emotional restraint (including the suppression of anger) and sharing (1990:535). He claims “over time they became embedded in Native culture as societal norms and continue to influence Native life today” (1990:535). Building partly on Brant’s observations, Spielmann (1998) develops on the role of non-interference as a guiding principle in Algonquin communication and relationships. Non-interference is reflected in the way people do not force their thinking upon others: “I believe the underlying value for not forcing your thinking on others is one of respect for individual autonomy” (1998:37). Having lived in the Algonquin community of Pikogan for eleven years, Spielmann claims this was widespread and noticeable in the way people did not expect commitment from others in terms of event attendance, or in the way asking direct questions was rude. For example, as cooperation is assumed (not negotiated) asking for something instead of demanding it can put into question the aptitude of the person being asked rather than his/her willingness to help out – following this logic you do not ask someone for a lift, you demand it. Therefore what can seem rude to an outsider (like an order) is actually polite. Key is to avoid embarrassment, tension or personal confrontation at all costs in order to maintain social harmony: “In my experience in Pikogan, personal confrontations are avoided whenever possible. Maintaining harmony in one’s relationships is the important thing. Among adults especially, anyone who tries to control or coerce another person to act in a certain way is viewed as doing something intrinsically bad” (1998:31). Non-interference was also reflected in the ways in which people raised children (theirs and those of others), encouraging that they learn by experience and observation, and disciplining in subtle ways (1998:39). In her work as a therapist in a Cree community, Nadia Ferrara also found that coercion or an attempt to persuade another person is often considered undesirable behaviour, and almost any direct question that requires an answer is considered coercion (2004:48-49). She claims that verbal communication is regulated by implicit hierarchies: “In the therapeutic context with my Cree patients, speech acts such as maintaining eye contact and expecting an immediate response are avoided because they are seen as authoritative and thus invoke the threat of concretizing implicit hierarchies” (2004:49). I also found that with many older participants eye contact was naturally avoided by our seating positions: participants would often arrange themselves to sit next to me. I remember a particularly intense interview with a first generation residential 52 | Note that he also describes four other “traditional influences on behaviour”: the Native concept of time (since debunked, see Bousquet 2012), the Native attitude toward gratitude and approval, Native protocol and the practice of teaching by modeling (1990:536).

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school survivor (Grace 2011), a kokom (grandmother) who sat so close next to me at her kitchen table that our thighs were touching. We however did not look at each other the whole time she spoke. In a similar way to what Spielmann (1998) and Ferrara (2004) describe, I learned to avoid direct questioning especially with elders and found that once trust had been established, the moment was right and I had expressed interest in a subject without raising questions, then no prompting was needed for people to speak hours on end. Writing about speech status among Algonquins, Bousquet explains that Algonquins only speak in public if they feel legitimately competent to do so. Accordingly, a question is only answered if one is certain of the answer and with others keeping in mind that this is the opinion of the speaker (my translation 2012:187). In a claim that can be extended to Algonquins, Ferrara writes: “Formal speech, indirection, and delayed responses to direct questions are three important mechanisms in Cree society, as in many Native American societies, for establishing communicative responsibility while avoiding the formal legitimation of authority” (2004:50). She further explains there is an allocation of responsibility linked to taking on the role of speaker or listener (2004:50). Darnell describes the importance of silence as a pause between turns at speaking indicates recognition of the seriousness of both the past speech and the reply: “Silence makes the utterance important and its absence implies failure to listen and learn” (Darnell 1979:5).

Discourse and emotions: self-control and humour Linking narrative discourse to emotions in Cree society, Richard J. Preston claims that excessive self-expression is not valued because “Getting excited is too immature an emotional response in a world where controlled and capable action, rather than helpless or rash reaction, is highly valued and learned early by most persons. The world of the Eastern Cree often has little tolerance for behavior that is poorly controlled or inept” (2002:179). Brant argues that emotional restraint is a corollary and an extension of the principles of non-interference and non-competitiveness. While he acknowledges the “positive side” of emotional restraint as promoting self-control and discouraging strong or violent feelings, he also points out how emotions such as joyfulness or enthusiasm are suppressed along with anger (1990:535). The suppression and repression of hostility, he claims, give rise to psychosocial disturbances, such as hostility explosions when under the influence of alcohol (1990:535). He links this to the problems of violence on reserves. In contrast to Brant, Preston approaches emotional regulation from a Cree perspective and therefore invites us to replace emotional restraint with the more

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positive quality of self-control. He claims self-control enables people to cope in a world full of contingencies that are only sometime predictable (2002:186): An angry, jealous, or fearful man would make a poor hunter, as would an ecstatic, romantic, or foolhardy individual. I do not claim that these emotions are not present for the Eastern Cree, but that they are not manifested as overt, focused emotional behavior. By means of self-control, emotions are given expression in a form more diffuse than focused and are channelled into overt expressions of emotional behavior that I describe in terms of attitudes. Attitudes denote emotion in a context of readiness for activity, rather than emotional constriction. I do not wish to imply that emotional depth is sacrificed in the control of emotional turbulence, since it is quite possible that deep feeling is enhanced instead of repressed or constrained by such control. (Emphasis added, 2002:187)

Bousquet writes that her interviews with Algonquin elders over the years confirm that high value was placed on individuals who could keep calm, did not get angry or publicly show their emotions, and were rather able to smile than impose negative affect on others (2009:59). She claims that high emotional control and the display of even-temperedness seem to have carried on until today (2009:60). She adds “They also should not have revealed any susceptibility to teasing, but rather the ability to reply through verbal games putting the other person back in his place” (my translation 2009:59-60). Several scholars have underlined the importance of humour in Algonquin conversations (Spielmann 1988, Poirier 2000). Analysing Algonquin interaction, Spielmann shows that “there are culturally-specific techniques for the use of laughter in conversation” (1988:211). He reveals how “laughing-together” is an interaction resource that can have several purposes such as “topic closure, expressing recipient appreciation, initiating a laughing-together and, in collaboration with other structural features of Algonquin conversational interaction, to initiate, sustain and terminate an utterance series” (1988:211). Importantly, Spielmann argues that “humorous themes and laughter positioning in Algonquin tend to throw light on what are considered to be important cultural values; group solidarity, interpersonal harmony, patience and tolerance” (1988:211).

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G athering data My multi-sited fieldwork (Basu 2013) consisted of several one to two month stays on Algonquin territory53. I conducted participant-observation, spending time with people in different places (the bush, the clinic, homes on and off reserve), participating in various activities (picking berries, preparing food, eating, watching TV, playing with children, spending time in bush-camps etc.) and taking daily notes of my observations and experiences. Figure 6: A-M Reynaud taking a picture of snowshoes in the making Photo by R. Ziegler, Rapid Lake 2013

As I split my time on and (mostly) off reserve and between different homes, I rely a great deal on the structured and semi-formal interviews I carried out with people. These interviews (individual and collective) were almost always recorded (audio) and sometimes filmed (upon request and only off reserve). Working from a person-centred qualitative approach, I did not aim at obtaining a high number of interviews, but still obtained fifty-nine recorded interviews (seventy-six interviews including those I did not record) with forty-two 53 | Note that I received financial support from the Excellence Cluster Languages of Emotion (Freie Universität Berlin) to cover basic fieldwork costs between 2010 and 2014.

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interviewees, a dozen people having gotten interviewed several times over the last ten years (2003-2014). Of the forty-two interviewees about half are Mitchikanibikok Inik, the other half are either working or living in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve, or manifest solidarity with community members via various affiliations. Of the twenty-two Mitchikanibikok Inik, half live or work on reserve, the other half live off reserve. Ten are residential school survivors. For interviews with Mitchikanibikok Inik participants (thirty-five recorded interviews) I mostly used a conversational method (Kovach 2009) that is more in sync with the local way of relating. That is, I formulated indirect questions and let people speak freely without interruption, building on what they said or guiding the conversation in the direction I felt was safe and appropriate for the person speaking with me. For the other twenty-four interviews I followed a standard interview protocol. These were conducted with the Canadian or Québécois population who were either living (part time) in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve area (i.e. teachers, health workers, tourism industry workers), or with geographically more removed respondents from government, civil society and business standing in various relations with Mitchikanibikok Inik. Participants received a copy of their interview transcription and a DVD of footage if their interview had been filmed. To respect participants’ privacy, all names in this book are pseudonyms. Participants were given the option to choose their pseudonym, which some did. Exceptions whose real names are used are public figures who wanted to be recognised as such, as well as deceased clergy persons and deceased persons who have acquired a representative status for the community (such as former Chief Makakos or Kokom Lena Nottaway). All the place names mentioned in this work are real.

I nto the field My “arrival in the field” for this research was more of a return to the field after years of activism and visual anthropology involvement with Mitchikanibikok Inik community members. I first met members of the Mitchikanibikok Inik community in the late spring of 2003. Jeremy, a friend of mine had invited me to accompany him into Algonquin territory to meet a family that had become very important to him in both his academic and personal journeys, and that was in the process of founding a non-conventional type of school: the Kokomville Academy. My first trip into the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve was for the launch of the Kokomville Academy, which took place in a family community dubbed Kokomville (at Lake Nanotinik) in the bush over the course of several days. Founded by George, the eldest male sibling of the Niwate family, the idea behind the Kokomville Academy is to share the traditional Anishnabe knowledge

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(see Hjartarson 1994, 1995) passed on by the late kokom after whom Kokomville was named, while integrating this approach to knowledge to Western approaches in both theory and practice. I initially got involved by filming the creation process of the Kokomville academy, and the relationships that were born out of this eventually led to activism work and to a Masters thesis (and a film) in Visual Anthropology on the proposed settlement plan to residential school survivors (Reynaud 2006).

F ieldwork and e thical consider ations Summer of 2010 would be the first of the three summer stays (2010, 2011 and 2013) during which I did multi-sited fieldwork in the Verendrye area specifically towards this book. In the summer of 2009 I had presented my research project idea to Mitchikanibikok Inik people I already knew and started meeting new people and presenting my research project to them, but it was not until the summer of 2010 that I conducted interviews. The Niwate siblings were now mostly staying at “the airport” (an old landing strip next to which people camp in the bush in the Verendrye) and in Kokomville. Diana Niwate was working at the nursing station in the Rapid Lake reserve, and as it was necessary for me to widen my pool of participants to include people living and working in Kitiganik (Rapid Lake), I decided to first approach the nursing station (locally referred to as “the clinic”). This decision was shaped by the situation at Rapid Lake, which did not enable me at first to approach the formal leadership for community approval and definition of engagement because, as the next section will explain, there was no leadership.

The leadership crisis As various authors and ethics guidelines on the methodology of Aboriginal research in Canada and elsewhere make explicit, rules and ethical concerns are necessary to counter the exploitation of Aboriginal knowledge and the lack of respect that this goes hand in hand with, but academic protocol can also be disrespectful of local ways (Tuhiwai Smith 2005; Regan 2010) and the formal leadership that anthropologists are required to consult and work with is not always representative. When I came to Rapid Lake in the summer of 2010 there was a leadership crisis in the community. As the result of an ongoing internal dispute, the Department of Indian Affairs (DIA) had signed an order invoking the electoral provision of the Indian Act in April 2010. By invoking section 74 (1) of the Indian Act, the DIA imposed band council elections on the community, which

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is one of the few in Canada normally governed by a customary council54. The DIA elections which finally took place in August were not a success as very few people voted and the elected chief resigned a week later. Though the four councillors were technically still in function, they were not representative of the population and the community was in a sort of leadership limbo: they were under third party management and there was no customary leadership I could present my work to. Moreover most people in the community did not consider the four councillors in function as legitimate. Besides the school, the nursing station is the main employer on the reserve and it is also the main social place where people gravitate starting late morning and in the afternoon. Run by Health Canada and the Mitchikanibikok Inik council, it employs both band people under different capacities (about twenty people including medical drivers and maintenance staff) and four Québécois Health Canada nurses. In 2010, I went through the whole nursing station from one person (or small group) to the next, presenting my research project and myself. It was important to address all possible people in the clinic as people from all sides of the conflict worked there and I did not want to take sides or to appear to be doing so. Given the situation of tension on the reserve due to this ongoing political struggle, approaching the nursing station, which via its structure encouraged people with differing allegiances to work together, was the most ethical option I had55. In this way I was able to approach elders and members of all three factions without having to choose one group over another (which would have happened had I approached a group outside the nursing station first; the others would have perceived me as “siding with so and so” and it would have put me in a difficult position).

54 | Their traditional form of governance was codified in writing in 1996 as the “Mitchikanbikok Anishnabe Onakinakewin”: it is a form of constitution that posits their values and structures of accountability to each other and to the land. Note that there is discord around this codification and in response another constitution (titled the “Sacred Constitution”) was drafted by the Council of Traditional Elders. Last accessed September 10th 2014: www.onenationvision.com/documents/documents.php 55 | Taking this into consideration my research was granted a retroactive certificate of ethics delivered on June 17th 2013 by the “Comité d’Éthique de la Recherche de la Faculté des Arts et des Sciences” (CERFAS) of the Université de Montréal.

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Rapid Lake: beyond the clinic Figure 7: Rapid Lake nursing station Photo by R. Ziegler, 2013

The time spent at the nursing station and the interviews (twelve recorded) carried out there constitute only a part of my “field”. By the end of our stay in 2010, I had established a particularly friendly relationship with one woman working at the nursing station, Helen, with whom I had ended-up spending quite some time and whose grandson played a lot with my son. She gave me informal Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin language lessons, visited us at our camp, and we kept in touch via email and Facebook after my return to Germany. When we came back in the summers of 2011 and 201356, it was much easier as we were no longer total strangers to the nursing station staff, and people started telling me I should also go speak to so and so outside the nursing station. This brought me into three homes on the reserve, two belonging to people I had already interviewed, and one where I met a couple (who I eventually interviewed) and their family members. 56 | Note that we also came back for a visit in the summer of 2015, when this book was nearing completion (I conducted two follow-up interviews on the TRC only used in the epilogue). Until then I kept in touch with various people mostly via Facebook, but also conducted a long telephone interview with a community member in 2014.

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Figures 8-9: On reserve: Rapid Lake homes in various states Two photos by A-M Reynaud, 2013

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It is not easy to go into people’s home as an “outsider” on the reserve (a former teacher I interviewed had never been invited into a single home during the two years she lived and taught on the reserve, despite that she had good memories of the people there and the same experience goes for the current nursing staff), and given my topic I was not going to randomly knock on peoples’ doors. I had decided out of ethical concern that I would only address people directly in the nursing station, or upon referral and invitation in the rest of reserve. Of course I tried to create contacts with people when there were given moments, and participated (with my family) in community events such as baseball tournaments and various summer games hosted by different families. We also participated in what had been described as a “community meeting” on human rights concerns with various outsiders coming for the occasion, yet as I quickly realised that this was a way for one group to boost their political solidarity network, I did not get too involved. When I went back in 2013 things were slightly different, as Rapid Lake had selected a new chief in 2012. Despite the fact that he was elected under section 74 of the Indian Act (not the customary way) he was recognised in the community, so I presented my research to him and some of the members of his new council whom I also interviewed. Though this new political turn alleviated some of the on-reserve tensions, community members were not all fully reconciled.

Working with all sides Conducting fieldwork under such circumstances was challenging in several ways and required perseverance. One of the reasons for this stemmed from working with all sides of the divide. This effort to stay politically sensitive shaped many decisions in the field, including where my family and I stayed. It was key for me to avoid siding with one group, and to openly explain why I did not want to focus on (family or political) divisions but on what people share in common when it comes to emotions and the IRSSA; what brings people together in light of the history of residential schools and their legacy. This resulted in me having to decline offers made to my family that we could stay in the bush cabins of two politically representative people on the reserve, and usually dividing the time in one stay more south of the territory with the off reserve population (wild camping and in a Sépaq rental cabin), and the other half camping next to the reserve in a Sépaq camping site in order to have access to basic amenities as we stayed for several weeks at a time. Of course staying with Sépaq was not an ideal (nor politically neutral) solution either, but I could more easily critically position myself as Sépaq is a “common problem” Mitchikanibikok Inik share (rather than a divisive one), and it remains the only viable option for longer stays on the territory (besides the outfitter establish-

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ments – but these have even more politically/personally charged relationships with Mitchikanibikok Inik). It worked out like this, and when staying next to the reserve I would go in for the day alone or with my family to visit with people and conduct interviews, and we also had regular visits from (on and off reserve) Mitchikanibikok Inik friends in both the rental cabin and the camping site when staying there. However it meant that I constantly had to situate myself and my work so as not to become an object of distrust. Figure 10: Marking the territory: Quebec flag at a picnic road halt in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013

The second reason that made the fieldwork particularly challenging stemmed from working with the local Québécois population. Not with the ones on the reserve, whose distrust quickly melted, but with the ones on the wider territory. Due to tense relationships between many Québécois there and the Mitchikanibikok Inik, there was also distrust towards me, as I was perceived as working with “them” (I will develop this point in the last chapter). For this reason there is a non-recorded interview that I agreed not to use, and it was not possible to interview a Rapid Lake “Sûreté du Québec” (SQ) agent who wanted to give an interview but for whom I could not obtain permission from the SQ.

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Delicate grounds The third reason that required perseverance on my behalf, is that due to the nature of my research close research participants who wanted to share traumatic memories with me had to be carefully listened to, engaged with, and accompanied. This was often emotionally exhausting for me. Though my research focus was not on residential school memories but on the IRSSA, some survivors decided to disclose their experiences to me. Out of ethical concern, never did I push or ask for these stories. Lastly, a non-negligible additional factor was that I carried out the fieldwork with my family. Effectively, though being with my husband and child facilitated relationship-building (through children’s play, the fact that we live in Germany, the usefulness of being a “Canadian who went back home to Europe”, or jokes about my tall, blond husband who clearly stuck out), I also had to deal with tensions stemming from the fact that when one does fieldwork under time pressure, in a rather isolated area and with a small yet spread-out community: there is no “time-out”. Effectively I divided my time between the reserve (mostly the nursing station) and various places off reserve in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve, which required a lot of driving between locations.

Multi-sited fieldwork: off reser ve locations One of those places was “the airport”: which refers to a disaffected landing strip next to the Highway 117 in the bush. Stories are told that this landing strip, once used for rich people flying-in for sports hunting in the 1950’s, was also at some point used as a training base for the military. I have not found any written reports on this. Since the year 2000, an increasing amount of Mitchikanibikok Inik have started to camp around the airport strip in the summer because of the easy access to the road and the abundant blueberry supply. One of the three Algonquin summer games is also held there and it is a hybrid space in the sense that so-called traditionalists camp there as well as reserve folks (though on the other side). At one end is a cabin where Grace lives. She is a Mitchikanibikok Inik residential school survivor from the first generation that was sent to Ontario and one of the daughters of the Kokomville kokom. She lives in her cabin whenever the weather permits and when it gets too cold she goes to Kitigan Zibi. I had met her in 2003 and again in 2010 before interviewing her in 2011. The Women’s circle (a healing initiative for Algonquin women from all the communities) meets in front of her home and it is a place were traditional ceremonies like cedar baths are held. Further down the landing strip in the bush is now home all year-round to Ogi gwan abik and his partner Lea. They have been living there since 2009, in

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a wigwam (for sleeping) and in an all-purpose circular one-room log cabin that has a wood stove. We spent some days camping out there with them in 2010 and 2011 (note that as of 2014 they started to come on week-ends and during holidays only as Ogi gwan abik got work in a penitentiary facility in a small town too far away for a daily commute). Some other Niwate siblings, George and Roy also camp out along the airport in the summer along with many other Mitchikanibikok Inik. In 2010 the Niwate siblings co-organised a spiritual gathering that took place around there with people from all over (among others Rainbow family members57, Aboriginal people from South America, a few Mitchikanibikok Inik and people from Montreal). The gathering was entitled “The call of the Wolf” and I participated in some of the activities there. I also spent some time at Maigan Agik, a small village off of the Highway 117 consisting of about fourteen households and where twenty-five to fifty Mitchikanibikok Inik live (depending on the time of the year). They left the reserve in 1995 following a community crisis mentioned earlier for having closed the school in 1996. Most Maigan Agik inhabitants are related to an elder, a kokom, who is one of the last elders still alive who only speaks Algonquin and lived most of her life in the bush. I was introduced there by another off reserve friend of the Maigan Agik settlement to one of the granddaughters (herself already a grandmother) of this Kokom. There was a circle held outside, where about ten people sat on the ground (there were some other visitors too) and I explained what I was doing and why. The granddaughter, Paula, translated everything into Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin for the kokom. I also had made a red bundle of tobacco that I gave to her. The kokom then addressed a conflict with someone else in the circle and nothing more was said to me or about my research. Afterwards, Paula told me that it was fine for me to do some interviews, but that kokom was too old and tired to participate.

57 | The Rainbow Family of Living Light (known as the Rainbow Family) is a loosely affiliated international group of people who hold regular events (“gatherings”) following the principles of non-violence and egalitarianism. The first gathering was held in Colorado (USA) in 1972. Drawn to Native American prophecies, their goal is to achieve peace and love on Earth (for more information see their website: http://www.welcomehome.org/ rainbow/ [last accessed July 3 rd 2015]).

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Figure 11: Off reserve home in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013

Other places I visited for various occasions (like summer games, casual visits with family members, family gatherings or interviews) were Barriere Lake, where seven Mitchikanibikok Inik families live mostly on weekends all year round and full-time in the summer; Mattawa, which is a small family community since the year 2000; various places in the bush (bush camps); a bush burial site; Sépaq amenities at “Domaine” (gas station, small shop, hotel, cabins and diner) and the Rapid Lake campsite; as well as local tourist fishing and hunting lodges (outfitter establishments). The last bit of fieldwork I conducted was at the 2013 national TRC event held in Montreal, which was attended by twenty Mitchikanibikok Inik community members58.

58 | Note that I additionally went back to the community for a visit in the summer of 2015 (long after this chapter was completed) and conducted a few more interviews as the final TRC event had just taken place in Ottawa.

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F ieldwork limitations The fact that I do not speak Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin (the local Algonquin dialect) is a serious limitation. I conducted most interviews with Mitchikanibikok Inik participants in English, rarely in French59. Though it did not pose a communication problem as all the people I spoke to where bilingual or trilingual, it does shape my research in the sense that I have to rely on participants’ translation of Algonquin emotion (enimidjiwên) concepts into English or French. In addition, I identified emotion concepts in English or French and asked how they “translate” into Algonquin. This places important limits on the scope of my enquiry. Therefore, I also attempted to identify emotion concepts or cultural codes that are transported from Algonquin into English or French. Moreover, I had to learn how to do conversational interviews until people felt secure enough to just talk (some were comfortable immediately, some not: “I don’t know” as an answer clearly means “I don’t want to talk” for example) and though the survivors who spoke to me wanted to and volunteered to do so, it was hard to hear their stories of residential school and to deal with the ethical responsibility linked to listening to these terrible stories of suffering. As I am not a trained psychologist, I always had to make sure certain boundaries were not crossed, by sometimes even steering the conversation back to other related topics that were about empowerment and overcoming so as to make sure not to provoke collapses. The kind of fieldwork I described above requires trust and care, and it took a lot of effort on my behalf, as a Canadian outsider, to secure this in the relationships. The fact that I do not live in the area and could not stay there for one long period of time (due to my family, to associated costs and to a limited camping weather window) was also a limitation. Coming back regularly and keeping in touch via Facebook, email and phone was therefore key to making my fieldwork successful. It was sometimes hard to find people in the bush and impossible to plan interviews, and though I was accustomed to this high mobility and reduced planning dynamic, it was not always easy for my family.

D ata analysis For the transcription of fifty-nine recorded interviews (on average one hour long) I used a freeware called F5 as this works well with MAXQda (version 10), the qualitative data analysis software I used for coding and retrieving my data. 59 | French was the language spoken at the residential school that the second generation attended and instinctively it felt like it was best to stay away from speaking French, that English provided a safe buffer zone with memories of abuse.

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One of the advantages of F5 is that the visual and/or audio files stay linked to the time code and can be imported into MAXQda. This means that if intonation or visual information is of interest to me for analytical purposes during coding or at posteriori, I can always click on the time code to watch and hear the original recording as well as read it. The long period of transcribing brought me closer to my data, especially older data that I did not precisely remember. Once I had transcribed all the interviews, I imported them all into MAXQda and organised them into coding families. Aware of the possibilities and dangers of using software like this one, I made sure not to expand the data into an overwhelming and unmanageable amount, as well as not to enforce my own preconceived concepts on it. In an article entitled “Computer-assisted qualitative data analysis” (2004), Udo Kelle describes two different types of coding categories that represent heuristic concepts and may be used to define an initial coding scheme that can be supplemented, refined and modified in the ongoing process of empirical analysis (2004:449-450). The first is a variety of theoretical concepts that can serve as “heuristic tools for the construction of empirically grounded theories.” (2004:450) Some examples would be: “role expectations”, “goals”, “intentions”, “strategies”, “costs” or “benefits” of certain actions, “means” etc. Kelle claims that in this manner, researchers may draw on a variety of abstract notions from different theoretical traditions to structure the data (2004:450). The second type of coding category he describes relates “to general topics of interest covered in the data material.” Kelle calls those topic-oriented codes. Examples of those would be: “school”, “family” or “work” as well as more complex ones. Drawing from Kelle, I opted for this kind of heuristic initial coding scheme for structuring my data, drawing both from theoretical concepts (for instance: “emotion regulation” or “community healing strategies”) as well as topic-oriented codes (for instance: “education” or “clinic role”). Many of the topic-oriented codes emerged during the coding, though I had already a small list of both kinds of codes based on my interview transcription process (I took notes). I developed a total of sixty-one codes (and five sub-codes), organised into ten main topics/concepts. I also included variables such as: gender, age, location of interview, affiliation, work, interview date, place of residence, and former residential school student. The retrieval process also created new subcategories into my initial coding scheme. Using MAXQda was advantageous in this process as it speeds up considerably the process of finding interview passages (especially with fifty-nine interviews). Retrieval means for instance retrieving all segments that were coded with “common experience payment” and all the segments coded with “emotion sharing”, meaning all overlapping segments, enabling me to explore the emotional sharing (or lack of) pertaining to the common experience payment measure. Then thanks to the variables created, I could go further and for

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instance add “gender” as a retrieval factor to compare the way men and women are “emotion sharing”. For some concepts that I wanted to differentiate more precisely (for instance in the realm of emotions) I created more fine-grained codes (like “emotion sharing in the clinic” or “emotions after payments”). As several code categories can be activated for retrieval simultaneously this is not a problem, but to the contrary enabled me to analyse what I retrieved a bit more quickly.

A gener ational approach In the Algonquin conception of social time, the residential school generation forms a zero point between “before” and “after,” against which changes, colonization, and the intrusion of Whites are evaluated. The wounds of the past have not healed. The trauma is still felt in contemporary communities; indeed, it cannot be any other way since the gap marks the beginning of a new culture in which this generation has invested all their social and psychological resources. (Bousquet 2006:14)

In the above quote, Bousquet emphasises the residential school generation as the zero point, not the residential school experience itself. This subtle distinction is key and shapes the analytical approach in the next chapter and in this book more generally. Unlike most scholars who approach residential schools themselves as the zero point, or the point of rupture, Bousquet reminds us that a generational approach enables historical contextualisation (2002:527). This approach leaves space for a plurality of experiences as having shaped change and/or rupture. From a historical perspective a generation is usually understood as spanning across thirty years: a parent-child time frame. From a sociological perspective and for our purpose here, a generation can be considered as a group of persons about the same age who have experienced specific socio-historical events together, which shaped their worldview in a common way while marking a distance with the previous generation(s) (Attias-Donfut 1988; Mannheim 1990). As theorised by Claudine Attias-Donfut, the social discourses on the generations are therefore part of the production of memory in a given society. “The collective representations that link historical moments to specific generations are markers of experience: structured and remembered.” (My translation, Attias-Donfut 1988:172)

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In reference to the Algonquins, Bousquet generally speaks of three main generations: the generation of elders (les aînés) who did not go to residential school and knew the semi-nomadic way of life; the residential school generation (la génération du pensionnat) who went to the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos) between 1955 and 1972 while their community sedentarised on reserve; and the new generation (les gens de l’avenir) that are the young people of today (Bousquet 2005:9). The 1950-1960’s period marks a “before” and “after” cleavage reflected by the generations: “before” as the traditional semi-nomadic life and “after” as the time of sedentarisation, marking the loss of autonomy, culture and well being (Bousquet 2005:9). In alignment with Bousquet’s generation-naming, respondents in this study however fine-tuned it according to their local experience and added two generations to the initial three (see below in italics): • “The generation of traditional elders”: mostly unilingual, lived a semi-nomadic bush life, never went to residential school (only one Mitchikanibikok Inik kokom of this generation is still alive). A minority obtained a “light” formal education (basic alphabetisation) through the Oblates (in French) or at the Hudson Bay Post (in English). • “The first residential school generation” (RS-G1) who went to two different residential schools in Ontario in 1950 (I could not find exact numbers but counted eleven children among my respondents and their relatives). These children grew up to be parents of the second residential school generation. • “The skipped generation” who did not attend residential school (these were the teenagers too old for Amos and those who were away working on mink farms in the USA). • “The second residential school generation” (RS-G2) who went to Amos (about eighty children). • “The new generations” of children and grandchildren of the “skipped generation” and of the “second residential school generation”. As the next chapter highlights, this emic categorisation of generations provides an important basis for understanding the generational remembering patterns (shaped by distinct experiences) and inter-generational emotional dynamics.

Chapter 4 Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

Asked if he had attended any of the TRC events, Cree youth activist Michael Champagne answered: “I attended one event in Winnipeg. Overall, I had a traumatizing experience, but was happy that there was opportunity given for young people to share inter-generational stories of how IRS (Indian Residential Schools) affects them today, called Circle of Youth” (CBC news, March 27th 2014). That TRC attendants who are not former residential school students would report experiencing TRC events as “traumatizing” does not come across as surprising given the widespread use of trauma discourse in relation to residential schools and the IRSSA. Former students are encouraged to share their stories of childhood abuse at TRC events and the point-based compensation system for sexual abuse also focuses on specific traumatic acts. The “inter-generational stories” mentioned by Champagne in the above quote also reveal how the IRSSA’s alignment with a historical trauma framework has slipped into Canadian public discourse. Historical trauma has been defined in contrast to the individualised approach associated with the classic trauma as PTSD: “In contrast to personal experiences of a traumatic nature, the concept of historical trauma calls attention to the complex, collective, cumulative, and intergenerational psychosocial impacts that resulted from the depredations of past colonial subjugation” (Gone 2013:683). James B. Waldram calls attention to the ways in which the historical trauma framework can create victim-personas and asks: “are North American Aboriginal peoples simply victims, passively accepting their fate as colonized beings, internalizing pathology to the point where it becomes the norm in families and communities?” (2004:227). In the light of this question it becomes particularly important to critically engage with the trauma and historical trauma frameworks: the IRSSA encourages using both and they are contributing to shaping our collective memory of residential schools, as well as determining the lay understanding of Aboriginal history in Canada. Moving away from the IRSSA’s official spaces, when former residential school students volunteered to speak to me about their school experience or what the IRSSA meant to them, they systematically placed their residential

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school experience within a broader narrative (for more on “narrative discourse” see chapter three). This wider narrative is one that reveals a collective memory of their community starting with memories of life before residential schools, and that connects the past to the present60. It raises the following questions: What do the Mitchikanibikok Inik remember of the past? What do these narratives tell us about their understandings of selves? How does this fit with the historical trauma framework encouraged in the context of the IRSSA? Before addressing these questions, this chapter first provides a sketch of the risks associated with victimisation as encouraged by the tropes of historical trauma. In the second and third sections, I present the participants and examine their memories of early childhood in the bush by focusing on the two most recurring elements from these narratives: remembering respect and freedom. A fourth section traces narratives of dispossession and resistance: remembering loss, violence, resourcefulness, confrontation and survival. The fifth and sixth sections examine what these broader narratives tell us about these elders’ sense of self. In doing so I consider how this understanding of self connects to emotions. Finally, I consider how the distrust and agency woven into narratives of the past and Mitchikanibikok identity call for a “bricolage” approach that moves beyond the trauma and historical trauma frameworks without necessarily rejecting them. I argue that though they speak of hardships that fall under the historical trauma paradigm, Mitchikanibikok Inik broader narratives do not fit neatly into the historical trauma or individual trauma categories: they also focus on resilience61 and resistance strategies that shape their self-understandings as agents of resistance rather than as victims.

H istorical tr auma and victimisation Personal memory, with its focus on individual harm in the context of residential schools and compensation payments via the IRSSA, has become intrinsically linked with the discourse of trauma. While the concept of trauma (and its main diagnosis of PTSD, see chapter one) provides valuable insights into experiences of childhood sexual abuse, it has also been widely criticised as limited for not taking into account instances of repeated abuse that span over long

60 | See chapter one for more on communicative and cultural memories as narrative discourse. This chapter opts for a broad approach to discourse that includes non-verbal repertoires: the exploration of rules of behaviour (interaction etiquette, see chapter three) and of emotional expression. 61 | Kirmayer et al. define resilience as “a dynamic process of adjustment, adaptation, and transformation in response to challenges and demands” (2011:85).

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

periods of time (Herman 1992; Bremness and Polzin 2014)62 and for ignoring or minimising the more collective and cultural impacts of traumatic experiences. Partially in response to these limitations emerged a concept (amongst others, see above footnote) called historical trauma (Brave Heart 1995; Duran and Duran 1995). This concept can be traced back to psychoanalytic literature pertaining to Holocaust survivors and their descendants, and was first applied to Aboriginal Peoples (specifically Lakota) in the early 1990s by Maria Yellow Horse Brave Heart (Gone 2013:686). The construct of historical trauma is used to describe the collective suffering of various groups who have experienced deliberate conquest, colonisation or genocide (Gone 2013:687). It stands for the “cumulative emotional and psychological wounding, over the lifespan and across generations, emanating from massive group trauma experiences” (Brave Heart 2003:7). The cumulative component supports the idea that multiple traumatic experiences exhibit additive effects that result in greater distress (Gone 2013:687). Historical trauma (HT) is defined as an integrative approach that considers traumatic events that targeted whole communities and resulted in trauma that is held personally and can be transmitted over generations: “HT is described as incorporating both the psychological and social sequelae of historical oppression whereas PTSD – as a form of psychopathology that is officially classified as a mental disorder so that it can be treated by mental health professionals – is largely confined to the psychology (and accompanying biological substrates) of the individual” (Gone 2013:687). A favoured approach by mental health professionals working in Aboriginal communities across Canada (Gone 2013:686), historical trauma is attributed to a wide range of colonial processes that members of any Aboriginal community may have faced: disease proliferation, military conquest, land dispossession, population displacement, forced removals to residential schools, violence, racism, forced adoption, loss of language, loss of traditional life-ways, resource theft, coercive assimilation etc. (Wesley-Esquimaux and Smolewski 2004; Sotero 2006; Gone 2013). 62 | PTSD is mainly criticised for not taking into account the specificities of trauma symptoms (their chronic, multiple and interpersonal nature) in children and where they are at in their developmental stage. For instance survivors of long-term abuse and/or childhood abuse develop characteristic personality changes including deformations of relatedness and identity. In addition survivors of childhood abuse are particularly vulnerable to repeated harm, from themselves or others (Herman 1992:119). In response to these limitations emerged the concepts of Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD, Herman 1992) and Developmental Trauma Disorder (DTD, van der Kolk 1996). Not included in DSM-5 these widely supported diagnostic categories are strongly connected, with DTD described as the child version of C-PTSD (Courtois 2004; Sar 2011).

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The way people respond to historical trauma, coined as the historical trauma response (HTR), includes substance abuse, self-destructive behaviours, depression (dysphoria), anger, anxiety, low self-esteem, difficulty recognising and expressing emotions, and “historical unresolved grief” (Brave Heart 1995, 2003). This extends far beyond the recognised symptoms of PTSD proper (Gone 2013:687). Historical trauma and its response (HTR) are not limited to “primary generations” (direct victims), “secondary and subsequent generations” are also affected by the original trauma through various means (Sotero 2006:99). In this sense, the historical trauma concept laces a collective approach to trauma to a psycho-genealogical one (intergenerational transmission). In his study of historical trauma transmission amongst Holocaust survivors and their descendants, Kellermann (2001) describes four essential mechanisms that enable trauma to travel between generations: psychodynamic and sociocultural mechanisms, family systems, and biological predispositions (Kellermann 2001:261). These four mechanisms imply that trauma transmission in a child is a function of displaced parental emotions (psychodynamic theory), inadequate parenting behaviour (sociocultural model), family enmeshment and tacit communication (family systems model), and/or a hereditary predisposition (biological model) with specific aggravating and mitigating circumstances (Kellermann 2001:265). Little effort has been made to critically examine the notion of historical trauma transmission (Kidron 2003). From this point of view, Aaron R. Denham argues it is important to further question to what extent the construction of historical trauma as a diagnosis is being used for political or biomedical agendas (2008:398). While it calls for greater attention to historical injustices, historical trauma has been criticised for its potential to essentialise history and divert attention from current structural inequalities (Waldram 2004; Gone 2013). It has also been criticised for essentialising history in a way that fixes Aboriginal Peoples into a victim persona. In this light, Waldram (2004) reminds us that post-colonial theory calls for a decentring historical analysis, which, following the lines of Foucault and others, means that there must be individual agency and resistance (2004:228). In its design, the IRSSA has assigned the task of communicating a new historical perspective with the public mainly to the TRC. In its efforts to convince its audiences of a common experience of injury and suffering, the TRC encourages former residential school students and their families to share their traumatic experiences (Niezen 2013). While this can provide survivors of violence with validation and a form of recognition, a (historical) trauma perspective also bears the risk of focusing on their suffering, thereby continuing to label them as victims. To self-identify as a victim can perpetuate emotions of self-defeat that push people to sabotage their own possibilities for positive life experiences and change. It also gives power to other people over the victim’s life, especially when the victim has an ongoing relationship with a perpetrator (like in the

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

case of battered women), to the extent that a perpetrators’ ultimate goal can be to create a willing victim that he totally controls (Herman 1992:75-76). Opting for a wide understanding of trauma as personal, social and political, Herman (1992) describes this process towards obtaining total submission as consistently the same in various contexts: from organised slavery to the domestic subjugation of women. “The methods of establishing control over another person are based upon the systematic, repetitive infliction of psychological trauma. They are the organized techniques of disempowerment and disconnection. Methods of psychological control are designed to instil terror and helplessness and to destroy the victim’s sense of self in relation to others.” (Herman 1992:77) The induction of fear and the destruction of autonomy are typical tools, and violence can also be used to maintain the victim(s) in a state of fear. Though the initial gain of a victim-status is not to be underestimated as the validation of suffering is extremely important in the face of a traumatic past, staying in a place of victimhood undermines active engagement with life, fears and healing. To see oneself as a victim does not enable a person (or a group) to take charge and assume the responsibility for recovery: Though the survivor is not responsible for the injury that was done to her, she is responsible for her recovery. Paradoxically, acceptance of this apparent injustice is the beginning of empowerment. The only way that the survivor can take full control of her recovery is to take responsibility for it. The only way she can discover her undestroyed strengths is to use them to their fullest. (Herman 1992:192)

According to Herman (1992), establishing safety and a narration of traumatic events (remembrance and mourning) are key stages of recovery that can pave the way to reconnection with ordinary life (1992:153). Key here is to take into account the fact that residential school survivors are at different stages of recovery: some have not found a way of establishing safety, others have and are sharing their experiences (at TRC events for example) and some have come to what many describe as a place of self-forgiveness or peace, though none claim that they live an unaffected life – they are all survivors.

L ooking back : the participants Moving away from the official spaces created by the IRSSA enabled me to gather data without constraining people in their narrative forms (with a time limit like at the TRC or with specific questions). It also enabled me to analyse data without limiting the analysis to either a trauma or historical trauma framework.

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The twelve respondents who gave me in-depth interviews about their early lives and provided the data central to this chapter were born between 1940 and 1962. This means they self-identified as either “the first residential school generation” (two people), “the skipped generation” (two people) or “the second residential school generation” (eight people)63. The exposure to different education systems, different languages, different life experiences and different value systems distinctly shaped these generations. Still, all of them experienced a semi-nomadic lifestyle before going to residential school, reserve (summer) school (between 1951 and 1962) or mink farms (and school) in the USA. For the “first residential school generation” (RS-G1) bush life was their only experience before being sent to Ontario, and for the “skipped generation” and the “second residential school generation” (RS-G2) there was a mix of both bush life and reserve life (and for some, life abroad on mink farms). Anchoring their experience of the IRSSA within a wider narrative was something all these older respondents did when they spoke with me. Mitchikanibikok Inik RS-G1 and RS-G2 survivors tended to organise their memories of the past along three broad narrative axes: • Early childhood in the bush (RS-G1 and RS-G2) or on the reserve (some RSG2): hard but happy (not an “ideal past”). • Life in residential school (RS-G1 and RS-G2): fear, loneliness, abuse and loss. • Life after residential school (RS-G1 and RS-G2): disconnection, reproduction of abusive learned behaviour, re-learning the “old ways” and for some, healing. The two participants from the “skipped generation” also identified an early childhood in the bush and on the reserve as hard but happy (not an “ideal past”). Several thematic reoccurrences emerged from the twenty-seven interviews that I carried out with the twelve older Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents in terms of what they remembered, and these will be explored throughout this chapter and the next two. Saving the thematic of child-rearing (and its associated memories) for the next chapter, this chapter examines how the remembering process articulates narratives on their early childhood, on land destruction (clear-cutting), hunger, religion and the reserve that move simultaneously between victimhood and agency, while revealing a bedrock of distrust. I distinguish what can be termed as narrative content (the remembered events) from narrative form (how those are “packaged”). While a methodology for content analysis can be easily described, in this case I explore thematic reoccurrences across narratives, narrative form or “packaging” can allude to many

63 | See chapter three for an explanation of the concept of generation as well as the emic understanding of how it applies to the Mitchikanibikok Inik.

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

things (for instance, linguistic discourse analysis usually focuses on sentence construction, on forms of utterances) and is not considered here. I purposefully include some longer representative passages from interviews in order to make way for an in-depth analysis and the elders’ eloquent words.

R emembering be yond residential school : an e arly childhood in the bush

Remembering respect When remembering their childhood in the bush before they ever went to residential school (or not), all twelve participants who contributed to this chapter associated that time with positive emotions. Importantly and as the next section addresses, despite the positive associations with those memories, respondents did not frame things in an ideal way hardships and violence are woven into the memories and do not convey the image of an idealised past. When remembering their childhood in the bush before residential schools, respondents usually describe memories of what they had learned. They remember what and how they had learned as embedded within everyday practice and ritual. Everyday practice included age and gender specific tasks, as well as play and stories. Those who had taught them were mainly grandparents, parents and other family members. Key to learning were language and observation. Though the memories shared reflect a wide diversity of bush-life survival knowledge depending on the individuals, respondents were unanimous in their insistence on three points. The first point is that the main thing they had learned was to understand, experience and treat all forms of life with respect (manâdj). The second point is that what they learned was never imposed on them as children: they were free. The third point is that they associate this part of their life with the positively valued emotion of happiness. Grace, born in 1940, lived a semi-nomadic life in the bush with her family until the age of ten, when she was sent to residential school in Ontario. During her childhood years in the bush, the Mitchikanibikok Inik had not yet settled onto the reserve and the road had just been constructed through their territory. She remembers how her parents taught her the value of respect: I think my parents they were very lovable person. They cuddled me like anybody else, they loved me, they show us how much they loved us. Even my dad, he would make me

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Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better a something like a tikinâgan 64, you know that’s for your baby. And we would learn how to take care of them really well, just like being a real mother. You see that’s the things we learned. It’s like respect. To respect things, and even to respect the living things on earth. You couldn’t break a tree for nothing, or peel the bark for nothing. Or even, what do you call that, maple. My parents use to tell us that was a given tree. It gives us sugar, brown sugar, taffy, molasses and fudge. All the good things. […] ’Cause we speak Indian and they also show us, this is what you did, we don’t want you to do that. You know. You don’t hit the tree for nothing, you got to respect, you know. Anything in the living things, even something like we can’t be wasteful, like if you kill a fish you have to make sure you eat it or you dry it. (Emphasis added, Grace, 71, August 2011, at her cabin in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve [VWR])

Besides underlining the importance of the value of respect and how it was transmitted, this quote also reveals the secure attachment Grace felt with her parents: she felt loved. Other values that also come across as central to bush life are cooperation (helping and sharing) and humility. Participants described how people worked together and helped one another, for instance in building shelters. Grace (2011) described how as soon as she was big enough to help, her mother would send her to help an elder. Marcel, born in 1954 and one of the first children from the second residential school generation (RS-G2) to be sent to Amos, is an elder who lives in the reserve and often speaks publicly on behalf of the community. Talking about his father, he connects the notion of respect to humility: During the course of our lifetime, he shared his wisdoms with me. He never told me that the land belongs to me or to him. He always tried to promote coexistence. There was a time that he said, he told me that, not to feel superior to the people that I would be interacting during my lifetime in order to survive. To share the knowledge, the wisdom. That’s what respect is all about. In my own language, that’s how I started to find what it meant. When he told me not to forget who I was, meaning my identity. To use the land, to be able to sustain my language, my knowledge, of our animals, of our territory, our use of medicinal plants. And to use it with respect, to respect the animals, the living things surrounding us, providing for us. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

Embedded in their language (Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin), central values like humility described above can also be traced in stories that are part of the cultural memory, like the “Kernel of Corn,” which Ogi gwan abik, who went to residential school with Marcel, shared with me in 2006. “In our stories, we 64 | A tikinâgan is a baby-carrier consisting of a wooden board mounted with a head brace. Community members use another type of carrier (more like a birch bark cradle) for newborns (until about month two) called a mizidjîbizin.

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

have a purpose,” he began. And he went on to tell how when the creator came to distribute the beliefs and the prayers, they were in a basket in the forms of fruits and vegetables. All the people came and they took the sweetest one, the most colourful one, the biggest one, the juiciest one, they all had a choice. And when the Indian came to the basket there was only a kernel of corn. And the creator told him: “don’t worry, that’s the most beautiful one” (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi). Ogi gwan abik then explained that this is who his people are; generous people, whose humility is reflected in their language because of its design (no gender, naming things by their function from “a higher perspective, not what we see”). Embedded in practice, central values like respect, cooperation, generosity and humility were also remembered as having been transferred to children through rituals like feasts (migocewin 65).

E xcerpt 1: Marcel remembers kekegan Well for me, the values, or whatever you want to call it, we’ll call it kekegan (spells it out). So it means, it’s a spiritual, emotional, moral and physical support system. How we use it, is by being out there on the land. Historically, how it was done on the land, is, as far as I remember, when I was a toddler before going to the residential school when we would go back to the community at Barriere Lake, Mitchikanibikok, each family would have a family feast and then from there the elders, well for me it was my grandfather who would, made a prayer. From there each family would, you know it was in a tent, would sit down on the ground and sit around with all the food, the wild food and then he would put the birch bark basket in front of him, and then he would say the prayer thanking the Creator for giving them the support, the moral support that they needed. Thanking the spiritual for all the living things that provided to sustain the family, to feed the family. And then from there, after that prayer, the birch bark basket would go around to all the participants and share their plate or the food from their plate and put it on the basket. Each, from child to the parent would go, and then it would come back to the elder that is doing the prayer and then everybody would eat. And then I would go with my grandfather, either on the land, I remember putting it on the ice when the lakes are kind of melting, you know the ice, we would put it on the floating ice, to let it go along with the current, that’s how they do it in the spring. But in the fall what we’d do is we’d do the same ritual or, then I was going out on the land one of those sites, with my grandfather, and put it on a tree, I’d hook the basket to a branch. We’d leave it there and say we’re thankful to the creator for providing life to the trees, to feed the animals, to feed the children, which was us, and the waters for providing food to the fish, all the living things. We call them odjijakwôc the spirits, the living things that have spirits. Like something that’s alive like 65 | Migocan is the root word for feast. Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin also enables the following distinctions (as explained by George): nimigacanan (our feast), nimigocanan (our exclusive feast, without you), kimigocanan (our inclusive feast, with you).

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Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better the plant, that’s what I remember, that’s how I was raised (laughs). To respect. That’s how, I, just before the residential school days, and then in the spring that’s what we would do, we’d put the birch basket, the offering I should call it, would go to, on the ice, in the fall it goes back to the forest, like hanging on a tree. Our offering. Along we’d travel the route sites, that’s how powerful the teachings were. Way before, as a toddler I don’t remember probably I was about four or five years old when, you know each child would go through that cycle of learning. Respect you learn as a child. The minute they’re able to follow their parents or their grandparents, then they would be given that first-hand teaching. I grew up like that, and then in the spring they would do that, they would put it in a floating block of ice. And then the current will give it back to the spirit. And then at sun down we’d go back to the community, and then from there it’s the whole community that goes under the traditional feast, everybody would share their food, their knowledge, their history, you know it’s, it just comes naturally by itself, the sharing. That’s how we survived, we sustained, and it gives at the same time too, it gives me the sense to know myself as who I am. You know, emotionally, spiritually I know what it means. How to be thankful to the creator by respecting what he gave me. To provide living things like odjijakwôc and it gives me, I connect myself to the Great Spirit by doing that. And I also, I connect myself to live those, to live those living memories. By being there, by going back there, where we did this ritual with my grandfather. It gives me sense, hope and moral support. In connecting myself with the spirit of my grandparents. And then also by going there I will be harvesting animals to feed my body, to be able to function. So it’s as simple as that. That’s how we describe our connection with the land. That’s why the community has always fought for what they believed in, because that’s the teachings that we got from them, and that’s what helped me to overcome the physical and sexual abuse: my kekegan. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 60, February 2014, phone interview)

The importance of seasonal feast rituals in reinforcing and transmitting essential values is something unanimously described by older respondents. The spring feast is described as being linked to the women, the summer feast to the children, the fall feast to the men and the winter feast to the elders66. All feasts were pedagogical moments for the children: they could observe and learn about food preparation and division, about adult negotiations (for the link between Mitchikanibikok Inik feasts and governance see Pasternak 2013:118) and about key values like respect and sharing as described by Marcel in the above quote. Participants remembered that feasts were an occasion to remind people of their roles, as 66 | Note that if participants described four main seasonal feasts, they spoke of six seasonal periods. Ogi gwan abik describes: “Nîbon would be summer. Tigwâgan would be fall. Bijibibôn would mean before winter. And Pibôn would mean winter. Sîgon would be spring, still walking on the ice. You’re still walking on the snow. When your foot is firm it’s Minokimin. Minokimin is when the ground is bare, when your feet are firm on the ground.” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, July 2013, at his place in the bush, VWR)

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

mothers, fathers, children and elders. Marcel remembered taking part in the last traditional gathering that took place at Barriere Lake, the summer just before he got sent to residential school, and witnessing for the last time the passing around of the three-string wampum, where the strings (pieces of hide all joined together at the top) can symbolise a human or animal mother, father and child67: And it was the last time, I believe, when one of the key spokespersons […] reminded the community members about the Wampum belt, the meaning of the Wampum belt. And then he use to, every gathering or meeting or community assemblies we would have, he would pass around this duplicate that he had made. As a reminder, for us to remember. Everyone in that gathering would feel vivid the wampum, the duplicate that he had made. (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

One of the last points Marcel makes in the earlier quote about kekegan underlines how places in the bush have become places of memory: it is by “going back there” where he did the ritual with his grandfather that he can connect to the spirit of his grandparents, that he can “live those living memories”. In this way these places of remembering serve as bridges to the present that strengthen a sense of identity. What Marcel calls kekegan, which he explains as “values” or “support system” (and “conflict resolution”, see chapter nine), is intrinsically linked to the land: “How we use it is by being out there on the land”. It is also intrinsically linked to the family, in this instance the grandparents, and to the self: “it gives me the sense to know myself as who I am”. Other participants articulated the same fundamental interrelation amongst self, family and land but did not necessarily have a name for that support system. In fact, some had never heard the word kekegan. Others knew the word but only assigned it its literal translation of “post sign”, which they claimed was “pretty much lost knowledge” (Ashley and David, a couple in their 40s, August 2011, Maigan Agik). Effectively, kekegan refers a system of post signs that were generally used to mark (for instance with sticks) or sign in order to indicate direction of travel (trails) or to warn of a danger (like a sink hole). Early references to this post sign system can be found in the literature: for instance J.A. Cuoq (priest of Saint-Sulpice) describes “kikaigan” in his 1886 Algonquin lexicon as: “brisées que les Sauvages font dans les bois pour indiquer la route qu’ils ont tenue. […] ils cassent des branches qu’ils plantent en terre penchées du côté où ils sont” 67 | For a general definition of wampums see chapter two. Speaking to me about the three-string wampum in another interview, Pidajemo Peneshish (Algonquin for “messenger”) (RS-G2) gave the example of “a buck, a female and small moose” to illustrate what each string can represent. Pasternak claims that unlike the other wampums of Barriere Lake, the three-string is about spirituality, about “everything that grows” and “how the Anishnabe ruled” one of her informants said (2013:108).

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(1886:160). Which translates roughly as: “broken things the Savages place in the woods to indicate their trails. […] they break branches that they plant in the ground leaning to the side where they are” (my translation 1886:160). In his 1930 Ethnological study of the Abitibi Indians, John T. MacPherson provides a very detailed description of “signs and directions” without calling it kekegan, but which can be assumed to refer to just that. He writes: Direction is indicated by a stick set obliquely in the ground, which means “we moved in the direction indicated by the stick”. If it is the intention of the party to indicate their next stopping place, a vertical stick is stuck into the ground cutting the oblique one at an angle of about 45°. The stopping place is indicated by notches cut in the vertical stick. For example, four notches would read “We shall camp at the fourth fire from here”. A ring made out of a willow twig and placed over one of the notches, indicates the number of days the party intends to camp at the stopping place. Direction may be also indicated by cutting marks on the trees. Picture writing made on birch trees was used sometimes to give information to the traveller going through the forest. Trails through the forest were marked by blazing – cutting chips out of the trees at more or less regular intervals. The white marks made by chipping are easy to distinguish in the dark forest. A tree girdled about three feet from the base and blackened with charcoal indicates a death in the family. The approximate age of the deceased can be shown by the size of the tree; a sapling indicates a young; a stouter tree, an older person. A tree felled and the but left on the stump, with a portion of the tip peeled and painted black, informs the passer-by that the family is starving. A tree girdled and peeled, but not painted, indicates sickness in the family. (1930:82-83)

The support system described by Marcel incorporates kekegan into a bush ontology which Innu poet Joséphine Bacon describes beautifully in her book Bâtons à message: Tshissinuatshitakana when she writes: “Les Innus laissaient ces messages visuels sur leur chemin pour informer les autres nomades de leur situation. […] Les tshissinuatshitakana offraient donc des occasions d’entraide et de partage. À travers eux, la parole était toujours en voyage. Mon people est rare, mon people est précieux comme un poème sans écriture” (Emphasis added, Bacon 2009:7). This translates as: “The Innus would leave visual messages on their way to inform other nomads of their situation. […] The tshissinuatshitakana therefore provided possibilities for mutual help and sharing. Through them, the word was always travelling. My people are rare, my people are precious like a poem without written words” (Emphasis and poor translation mine, it is hard to do her writing justice! Bacon 2009:7).

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

Remembering freedom Besides the notion of respect, the other recurrent memory respondents kept coming back to in link to their early childhood was freedom: Here, I was free to do anything. I did, my family use to take me like when they go trappin’, I learn something, like when they go chiselling in the lake, in a little lake you chisel, you walk around and you go where the beaver lives and I use to see them get them out and kill it. And then we’d take it home and eat it. I learned a lot of things being an Indian. And today is what I’m teaching my kids, not to forget their culture, their traditional. But there’s also something else really, it’s happening. Wood cutting. There’s no more animals. There’s nothing to teach your kids because they cut all the trees, like birch, you could do a basket, you could do a canoe, you could make anything with birch bark. And cedar you could make your canoe also you know. And cradle board for your babies you know, you could make furniture with it, you name it. All the tools are in the bush for us, and today that’s what we don’t have. That’s why, the government is all that. You can’t do nothing with the woodcutter, you do something you go in jail. They protect the woodcutters more than they protect Indian peoples, and this is how we live. And it’s, it is very sad, it doesn’t matter how you look at it, ’cause it’s all the government’s fault. I blame the government, it’s all his fault, he wants to control everything, he wants to control the Indian peoples. He doesn’t want Indian people to live the way they use to live a long time ago. That’s the way I look at my life. I was well when I was a little Indian girl. My home was everywhere. We always had a shelter. A nice shelter. That’s why I live like this. I like my home. I’m well. I don’t need fancy house. I got everything what I need. But to do something, to teach something to your grandchildren today you don’t have nothing, ’cause it’s all cut. (21:30) And this is how I learned when I was young, I was free. (Emphasis added, Grace, 71, August 2011, at her cabin in the bush, VWR)

Grace here contrasts her childhood freedom to what she describes as a situation of control by the government. She links freedom to the way she learned, and this is not surprising given the importance of non-coercion in Algonquin interaction etiquette (see chapter three), which also applies to child-rearing practices (chapter five develops more on this). Like other participants, she did not embellish her early life in the bush, but she spoke about it with confidence and a sense of well-being. She remembered having been taught techniques for hunting, for food preservation and for making moccasins. Illustrating the resourcefulness grounding this sense of confidence, Grace remembered how she learned how to knit: I remember a long time ago there was no roads. We use to, American people use to come and fly-in and they use to bring cloths, sometimes sweaters. We’d take it apart. And teach us to knit. That’s how we use to knit and a lot of times we, heavy blanket like, we

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Participants remembered being with their families in the bush, being well, being busy and being free as synonymous for feeling happy. “Before I went to school I was in moccasins, playing in the snow, playing on the shores, sandy shores. Sometimes we’d have only moose meat or any kind of meat and I was happy because I was with my family. I was out there with nature.” (Emphasis added, Diana, 56, August 2010, bush campsite close to airport, VWR)

D ispossession and resistance : remembering loss , violence , confrontation and survival The damage, the destruction that has been put on us, it’s just like the Hiroshima bomb that took place. (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

When remembering the past, the twelve elders who spoke to me were unanimous in recalling the progressive destruction of their traditional territory and the hardships their community faced before residential school. They shared some of their own memories and many memories passed down. Recurrent themes were the flooding and clear-cutting of parts of their traditional territories, removal of hunted meat by game wardens, violence from game wardens, hunger, the creation and settlement onto the reserve, and the influence of the Catholic religion. As the following interview excerpts illustrate, woven into these stories of sometimes traumatic events is also a strong emphasis on resistance and resilience. The first two selected passages are from a longer interview carried out in 2011 with Marcel (one of three interviews I carried out over three years with him, this one 1h45 long). A few utterances were edited out (again, for space reasons) and their absence is marked like this in the text: […].

E xcerpt 2: Pressure, flooding and fighting off game wardens […] community members lived off the land, harvested the land. There were hardly any community members on the Rapid Lake site. They only started to stay in the community in the mid-70s. They started to settle down in the mid-70s. Because of the tremendous pressure from the outside world. Like forestry, sports hunting. And it was getting very difficult to provide for their families because they had no say in how they were going to sustain their families because of over-exploitation. At that time there was the CIP, the Canadian International Paper Forestry Company, that was operating in our traditional territory. And our family were kind of being pushed aside, our cabins being destroyed on

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present several occasions. Or being burned down by the companies to discourage our use of the traditional territory. So we had to move around. In fact in the early 1900s when they started to build a dam, the Cabonga reservoir, they flooded a lot of our traditional territory. Including our cemeteries, which are still under the water as we speak. Here by the Dixie Bay there’s a cemetery that is under the water, and then there’s another one downstream by Dozois reservoir there’s another cemetery that is still under the water. So that’s how we have been treated. There was no respect on the outside world, for how we live. They have never considered us as human beings to my knowledge and to our experience, to the history that’s been passed down by our ancestors. When we did harvest our traditional territory not too far from here by Lac Larouche […]. This was in the early 40s they went back to the gathering at Lac Barriere in the spring. So they had shot a moose and my father was there, along with my grandmother. They were going back to that gathering in the spring, so they shot a moose and then there were game wardens waiting for them on the other side of the Lac Larouche, Bandjionagamôk we call it. And they were there, they were going to seize the meat, the moose that they just caught for their feast in our settlement of Barriere Lake. So they had to fight back to keep what they were bringing into the community at Lac Barriere. So they managed to keep ’cause many, my grandmother used to tell me these stories. She used to show me her scars where she was cut by one of the game wardens. There was a deep shooting scar on her forehead because she was hit by one of the game wardens or the RCMP one of them. There were about a half a dozen of them waiting for them to seize the meat but they fought back because it was my parents, my uncles, and my aunts and their family so there was a bunch of us because we were harvesting as a family which was the tradition, to be able to carry on the history of that territory that took place during the winter months or during our stay at certain places. […] So that’s how they struggled. […] our ancestors have survived that. All the day under pressure and then they’ve been thrown in jail for harvesting or killing moose for their family, or trapping beaver outside the trapping season. That’s how they tried to impose their law on us. And for us it’s our way of life; we eat what we catch and that’s how we learn, that’s how we were raised. So they didn’t want to recognise that. They did everything. They put pressure on our ancestors to force them to move away from our traditional territory. To move to Maniwaki, Kitigan Zibi and then the reserve or Timiskaming Indian reserve by Notre Dame du Nord. So they survived that. They’ve been thrown in jail for providing us with food on the table. It was illegal for them to feed their own children at that time. […] (Emphasis added, Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

This excerpt illustrates well the pressure Mitchikanibikok Inik elders remember, a pressure meant to get them to settle onto the reserve and give-up their traditional lifestyle on the territory. Burnt cabins, flooding of sacred sites and attempts to seize their freshly hunted meat are actions that for Marcel reflect a total lack of respect and a negation of their existence: “They have never considered us as human beings to my knowledge and to our experience, to the history that’s been passed down by our ancestors,” he said. The way he speaks empha-

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sises an “us” and “them” dichotomy in which the Mitchikanibikok Inik are victims, sometimes even thrown in jail or physically attacked by game wardens. However, Marcel counterbalances this part of his narrative by underlining that they were successful in fighting back the half-dozen game wardens in order to keep their hunted game, thanks to their family-based harvesting practice. This highlights his family’s agency while underlining the importance of tradition, which includes family harvesting practices. This is also a typical feature of Algonquin discourse: to complete the negative with the positive, to achieve a balance between the two (Bousquet 2014, unpublished conference paper).

E xcerpt 3: Blocking the rivers, hunger, clear-cutting and still passing on territorial knowledge […] Cause I’ve seen my brothers, my parents they were struggling in providing a meal on a daily basis. I used to hear the generators across where our family territory is. The C.I.P. Company by Lac Landron; the generator operating year round before I went to residential school. And then the hardship that we had to go, my parents had to go, to catch a beaver because they were clearing, cutting all the logs up to the rivers. Blocking the rivers, Ogasîzibi we used to call it, the Ogasîzibi river. And the people were not able to survive with all those blown down trees on the river. So they had to move away. Walk great distances. People would trap beaver, there was no moose. There was no fur bearing animals because all their habitat was being destroyed. So we used to go out on the land from the main camp, two nights. I remember them crossing the lake Landron, went up to harvest beaver and then the third day, the second or third day they would come back, at least something. While in the meantime, this was early late fifties, my sister Nadine was not born yet. And I remember me and my mother, my sisters there, Aylen and Shannon going out to the dump, the forestry dump, looking for something to eat. And I clearly remember there was a strawberry cookies wrapped in a box in waxed paper. Wrapped around those, picking up those remaining at the dump. That’s how we sustained ourselves. I so clearly remember that. So that’s how we survived. The C.I.P. dumps, feeding on C.I.P. dumps (laughs). They were just clear-cutting the whole territory, that’s how, the hardship. And that’s what, sometimes I believe, pushed my mum to accept that I go to a residential school. Because the land was not able to provide because it’s been destroyed by the Canadian International Paper and Forestry Company. […] She was kind of very upset. Because she was threatened that if I don’t go they would come back and apprehend me with the RCMP. So they had no choice. So that’s the struggle and then also the other thing to be hidden. My mother didn’t want to see me grow up in a place where there’s destruction (silence). I remember when I came back (from residential school) I used to go out paddling the river, the lake, the water used to stop at this place. Used to stay there, he (his father) would make fire and then make tea then just with bannock, sugar. Then we would sit there for a while. And he was not saying anything he was just staring looking at the emptiness in the forest. You could see his

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present tears coming down. I didn’t recognise that he was crying. I thought he was just sweating then (sigh). I still remember those clearly, what was going on. He was hurt by the way the land was managed. Because there was a cabin nearby, my grandfathers cabin. Who built it out of cedar, it was kind of locked-out. Other American organisations they, the Boy Scouts of America used to put their stuff there. Lock us out in our own camp cabin that was built by my grandfather. And that’s when he used to talk to me about what happened there. And then they, he started to, because we would go by there every year, we used to stop there and do the same routine as we did in the past. And he used to come in and talk about the history of that area. Even though it had been clear-cut. Talked about that, the families that were there. […] The community that lived there way before the companies moved in. He used to tell me who was born in that area. I used to start imagining things the way he was describing it. The trees, the types of trees that were there, I was closing my eyes and I was living there, that year that past (in residential school). Then he would help me a lot, to bring back myself. To value, despite the damage that they have caused to our family. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

This excerpt illustrates how game scarcity put a strain on the Mitchikanibikok Inik, who could no longer find food. Marcel explains how the rivers were blocked from the logs thrown down by the forestry companies, disrupting the lives of animals and the people, who could no longer survive. As a result, Marcel like others who spoke to me from his generation, looked for food at the dump and links these vivid memories of hardship to his mother’s decision to send him to residential school. But he oscillates on the question of her agency, later on stating she had no choice because of an RCMP threat and then finding a reason: she did not want him to grow up seeing the destruction of their territory that was getting clear-cut. In a later part of that interview he comes back to this point and remembers that after the government agent’s visit sometime in the summer of 1962 community members gathered to talk about the developments and “whether or not we are going to be accepting to send the children to the school” (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake). To reveal this consultation once again underlines the agency people had, even if they felt cornered by the destruction that was taking place in the bush. In the above quote Marcel also describes the suffering the clear-cutting caused his father, suffering he did not recognise, as such a show of emotions would have been unusual and going against Algonquin emotional expression codes. Despite the destruction of their territory and way of life, Marcel remembers how his father insisted on going back year after year to continue passing on his knowledge of the people, the flora and the fauna of specific areas according to their tradition. The clear-cutting was destroying their territory but not all the memory markers associated to it. Marcel stored this knowledge, and made mental pictures of the past that helped him through the rest of the year at residential school.

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Remembering religious influence Participants also remembered the Catholic Church and its influence. Today there are no more practicing Catholics in Rapid Lake (the Church serves as a day-care) and the communicative memory on missionaries or former band priests is laced with accusations and distrust. Going far back to memories passed down from his grandfather, Pidajemo Peneshish (RS-G2) describes how the old chief Makakos had converted to Catholicism and asked young people to follow the missionary’s wish that they attend church up to four times a week (when he was at Barriere Lake for the month). He describes fear of punishment as having been a central conversion mechanism for community members: And the reason why (for his grandparents and parents being Catholic), if you don’t love your neighbours or your friends you’re gonna go to hell and burn in the fire, so that’s why people got scared, they tried to follow that as much as they can. Even when somebody come to see us, a priest, maybe you’re gonna give him tea or anything or water, that’s what you’re gonna give him. If you don’t do that you’re gonna have a punishment. That’s what the priest had told. Even they had to baptise them, you know, the people. (Pidajemo Peneshish, 57, August 2011, cabin at Barriere Lake)

Stories circulate on how “a long time ago” a priest brought poisoned rosaries to the Mitchikanibikok Inik, forcing them to wear them around their necks and telling them to accept the burning as washing their sins away. Or how “a long time ago”, when the Mitchikanibikok Inik had no guns, a man came with a powder shotgun. The Mitchikanibikok Inik asked the priest (probably for translation reasons) if they could get a gun and the priest said to give him three days to ask God about this (at this part there is laughter). Then, after three days they asked again and he said yes but you have to get a lot of beavers, for their fur: as high as the seven-foot high gun, about 900 beaver pelts. That former residential school students would discredit and distrust priests and the Catholic Church does not come across as anything surprising given their mostly negative experiences at Church-run residential schools. It reveals their penchant for an interpretation of conversion as an imposed process68. According to Bousquet, former students began to destroy the idealised image of the perfect missionary in the 1970s and by the 1990s stories of sexual abuse 68 | These memories contrast with reports of conversion among Algonquins, written from the perspective of the Oblates: “[…] the Oblates report that the Algonquins converted for many of the same reasons invoked a century later for conversions to other systems. For example, people converted because they thought it would reduce the consumption of alcohol, and because, in the final analysis, they thought Catholicism would re-establish the social order” (Bousquet 2008:67).

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

were becoming public knowledge (2008:64-65). While the Catholic religion was prevalent in the community until the 1970s (the Band Council passed a resolution on November 22nd 1979 renouncing the Barriere Lake Band from the Roman Catholic Religion), there were other religious influences after (Pentecostalism as well as a traditionalist movement explained in chapter two), which also reaped distrust and generational fissures: Our parents being influenced by religious values. My older brothers, by another group of religious values. My older brother, Tobias, traditional values, myself, those French values. And the younger generation, the younger couple, my nephew and nieces, with provincial values. So those are the things that our community is still facing today. (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

The meaning attached to the reserve and its creation, linked to religious practice and sedentarisation efforts, reveals a difference in experience between the generations. While RS-G1 children did not grow up on the reserve before going to residential school in Ontario, many RS-G2 children spent time there (and in the bush) before going to Amos. Some of their parents, of whom some were RSG1, were starting to settle there. Ogi gwan abik recalled how his parents (both RS-G1) separated and his mother raised him as a single parent: “[…] she went to residential school and personally I feel like the people were lost, without moral values on the reserve, on reservation.” For him, the reserve is no place to live and he prefers living in the bush or elsewhere: Today what I feel my children take for granted who we are. They don’t have any idea what a reserve or a reservation is, they think it’s land set aside for our people. A reservation is to contain our people, it’s not a reservation it’s Guantanamo Bay. Like it’s a prison, and they don’t know that. They don’t know the generations before them. (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi)

With this last sentence, Ogi gwan abik alludes to an intergenerational silence, which interviews carried out with “the new generations” confirm, especially when it came to their parents’ residential school experiences. This makes it all the more important to document the memories of the elders (the broad narrative) so the younger generations are not just left with what they learn over the Internet through, among others, the online TRC public testimonies. Participants generally agreed that the community (under Makakos’ guidance) never accepted the concept of the reserve, though opinions differed on whether or not some exclusive deals with a “sell-out” family were made. One participant said: “The problem is linked to the creation of the reserve because that is where they make deals. That’s where they make deals. The chief of that reserve has a right to deal with the land, he isn’t supposed to, it’s supposed to be

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the families.” The creation of the reserve can therefore be seen as having fostered distrust and internal divisions. It is generally described as a constraining place that breeds conflicts and where traditional values do not apply like in the bush.

Remembering mink farms Several participants from all three generations (RS-G1, skipped generation and RS-G2) remembered having worked on mink farms in the United States. Grace, who went to work on Saxby’s mink farm with her mother after having spent five years in residential schools in Ontario, shared positive memories of learning English and becoming a foreman thanks to extra schooling financed by Saxby: I came home right after, after they brought my brother home. I came home in that June, and I had told my mother how I was getting abused and she took me out of school. They wouldn’t send me to a residential school anymore. So I never went to school, I stayed home and I work in the mink farm for fifty cents an hour, and I upgrade myself more. I find Americans people were very patient for me to learn something. They helped me through life, to be what I am. (Grace, 71, August 2011, cabin, VWR)

About ten years earlier, starting in 1945, Mitchikanibikok Inik community members had started to travel down to Ontario County (New York) to work as seasonal skinners on mink farms during the winter months. Lena Nottaway69, born about 1914 and the mother and grandmother of some of my informants, was one of the first to make the trip to work on Lester Bennett’s farm with her husband. By the mid-1950s over 100 Algonquins were migrating to work through the winter in the United States. This seems to have continued through the 1970s, at which time they worked on three different farms in East Bloomfield, New York, south of Rochester 70. Partly a response to the closing of the Hudson Bay Compa69 | Lena Nottaway was a great matriarch who had sixteen children and was herself a midwife. Having outlived two husbands, she passed on much knowledge to her children and grandchildren. She is remembered as having been powerful, and as very knowledgeable of the territory. “She wanted us to also learn traditionally, in this fashion. So when her (second) husband died and all her children grew-up she continued to hunt, she continued to trap, she continued to pick her medicine plants, she continued building, making things.” (Diana, 49, interview at the launch of the Kokomville Academy in May 2003). Kokom Lena was given an Honorary Doctor of Laws by Carleton University in Ottawa in 1992 for her Native teachings, and in 1996 was awarded the Order of Canada, the country’s highest citizen honour. 70 | January 1978 newspaper archives from the Rochester Patriot (NY) document a late 1977 “Algonquin strike” on the Bennett fur farm where conditions were initially far from ideal (for more on this see the study by King 1971). The 1977 strike was successful and the Algonquins obtained better wages.

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

ny Post, this mink farm seasonal migration provided money for investment in harvesting equipment (Roark-Calnek 1992:15). It also coincided with years of increasing pressure on the Mitchikanibikok Inik to settle in a reserve, and can be seen as having continued a pattern of a semi-nomadic way of life where winter dispersal was the norm: an adaptation, and a form of resistance, to the changes brought by sedentarisation onto their traditional way of life.

S ense of self and “going back kopâmwin ” For instance, like in the spring, the way the community interacted amongst themselves, and taking into account the relationship to the land […] I’ll put it this way: in the fall the community would go back kopâmwin, so that’s the process of teaching and allowing children to learn about survival and to learn about their identity and to learn about speaking their language and to learn about respecting the animals and all living things, water, and that’s the whole process. That’s how they started to have, you know they call it forest or land management (chuckles), us we call it kopâmwin; how we’re going to manage to preserve our identity, how we manage the land, what is our relationship with the land. If you want to go in the fall they would go this route, there’s a mountain there and different types of trees, this is where you go out and harvest and go for moose hunt. And then if you want to maintain a good diet, this is where you’re going to go out harvesting the land you’re going to go past by tekaden (chuckles) that means where you’re going to be harvest small games, rabbits, partridge and you name it, this is where the habitat for the small game is. And this is where the moose coverage is. The traditional knowledge is already playing its role on that. This is how we see, that’s the social structure. That’s kopâmwin. That’s how we manage. That’s how we’ve been doing it. And that’s how we’ve been carrying on this knowledge and transferring it to children today. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 60, February 2014, phone interview)

Explained literally, kopâmwin means to leave the river (get out of the canoe) to go onto the harvesting grounds (place of hunting). Though there was no further meaning to kopâmwin other than this literal explanation for some of the other participants, they all identified with the concept behind it: that their identity is deeply intertwined with their relationship to the land, and that this is maintained and transferred by ritual and everyday practice. This implies a different kind of “survival” than the one that is referred to in the now common appellation of residential school survivors (of trauma): a survival that is about how people sustain themselves in the bush, something children learn (see Marcel’s above quote as well as the one on kekegan). A part of kopâmwin, Marcel explained, are the negabanagwîdjik: the spokespersons of each section of their traditional territory, who would make sure that all families and young couples have a place to harvest “and contribute to the preservation of our identity, our

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language and the way of life.” In this sense kopâmwin highlights a strong sense of identity as a vector for resilience, while widening the understanding of identity beyond the self, the ego. In her work with the Cree, Ferrara proposes an identity framework she calls “the composite self” in which the self is not the centre of all things, but is reciprocally embedded in the individual, in nature (i.e. the bush) and in the collective (i.e. the community) (2004:3). This notion of the composite self seems quite fitting in the case of the Mitchikanibikok Inik, and helps shed light on the reason why participants systematically connected stories of resistance or resilience to these three components of their identity: the individual and autonomous self, the self-in-nature, and the self-in-the-collectivity. Ferrara claims that the source of tension and instability for many Cree people usually lies in the representation of the collectivity used in or forced onto the composite Cree self (2004:14). To consider the Algonquin sense of self under this composite lens is an important premise to understand experiences of residential school and of the IRSSA. As illustrated by the narratives just discussed, it widens the considerations of harms and repair from the individual to the collective level, while embedding those within a way of life in the bush.

Tr acing emotions : distrust and agency Kekegan and kopâmwin both reveal a composite self that is doing (in the bush) in order to be. In Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin a normal greeting is not “how are you” but rather “what are you doing” (anedôdamin). This points to an emphasis on doing rather than feeling and is consistent with what participants remembered learning as children when it came to their emotions: to put them aside. Ogi gwan abik recalls: My mother always said: whenever you get something, put it aside. You might need it later. We would put it aside. So that whenever we have sweats, I always pray to release some of that anger. On my own, you know. I swallow the pill. […] You can take it in or leave it out you know. Sometimes I leave it out, sometimes I take it in. Because it affects me directly, but then I don’t share it: I pray. (Ogi gwan abik, 52, July 2010, Kitigan Zibi)

The Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin term that comes closest to “emotions” is enimidjiwên, which means physical and emotional feeling. Unlike the Cree term for emotions (umituunaaichikanic), which is defined as “mind and heart, thought and feeling” (Scott 1996:73), enimidjiwên does not encompass both “thought and feeling”. In Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin there is a distinct term for thinking: anendemên. In this sense there is a separation between feeling and thinking, which reflects the belief that the mind can regulate the emotions. This is sim-

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

ilar to what Jean Briggs (1970) found among the Utku (Inuit): individuals who are not able to control their emotions (especially anger and frustration) are considered lacking in ihuma (reason) and are therefore like small children. Speaking about his anger in the above quote, Ogi gwan abik says he does not share it with others and that “you can take it in or leave it out”. Participants described the seat of emotions as the heart (deh) and on important occasions of sharing (emotional) perspectives (their truth) they referred to the heart (in English) with expressions such as “this comes from our heart” or “I speak from my heart”. They connected their language (Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin) to emotions and emotions to practice on the land, stressing the interconnected issue of land and language loss. Though emotions were described as flowing from the heart, they were also (as mentioned above) understood as controllable by the mind: Sometimes our emotions get big. Everyone, I know everyone has emotions. If it’s sadness it can be overwhelming, that you know, people go into deep depression. And if people could understand that they have total control over their sadness, they have total control over their happiness, that’s part of knowing, and the things that make us sad. […] If I can go as far back with the memories of my grandmother, she mentioned that you know, she always told me, she said: “be careful Diana, don’t let your mind go over the edge. You gotta know these things.” She says “if you’re sad, don’t be too sad.” You know, that’s why I say these things. (Emphasis added, Diana, 56, August 2010, bush campsite close to airport, VWR)

Ferrara describes the “reticence” or caution of her Cree informants towards expressing emotions as an attempt to reconcile the individual and the social “because both the individual and society are seen as implicated in the other” (2004:53). This reasoning concords with the model of the composite self and underlines how understandings of self and emotions (their socialisation and regulation) interconnect. Ferrara also underlines that the expected verbal disclosure central to Euro-Canadian therapy (i.e. the expression of emotions is important in order to avoid somatisation and neuroses) is somewhat problematic for her Cree patients, for whom this is not perceived as a key criterion that leads to health: “In fact, “somatization” of emotions is perceived as the norm, and not something to be avoided” (2004:54).

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Though this certainly extends to the Mitchikanibikok Inik 71, it should also be acknowledged that the “emotional disclosure discourse” conveyed by group therapy initiatives (trauma workshops) organised by the clinic and nearby recovery centres have introduced this idea of emotional disclosure as something positive, and that some participants were therefore keen on expressing how they felt once trust had been established between us. This reveals that the perception of anger and distrust oscillates between something coming from subideh (a “deep and dark heart”) that should be suppressed and as legitimate consequences of identifiable situations that unfolded over time. If the memories shared in this chapter do not often refer explicitly to emotions, it is still possible to detect the positive emotional association participants made to their early childhood, and a sense of distrust linked to the Mitchikanibikok Inik identifying themselves as a community with a history of mistreatment and betrayal by settler-Canadians. Memories of arrests, poverty, flooding, displacement and residential schools (see chapter six) are part of family experiences and not a distant history. Distrust towards game wardens, the RCMP, the Catholic Church, the Federal and Provincial Governments, the Boy Scouts etc. reflect a general distrust towards “outsiders”. Writing along similar lines about the Mohawks, Trudy Govier explains: Although groups do not have a mind or consciousness, these cases vividly illustrate that there is a crucial sense in which groups have a memory. They have a lore and history – oral and documented – of events in their collective past, and a shared interpretation of what key events mean. Tales of the past, of victory and mistreatment, are told and retold. They are remembered, and a history of the group is constructed and cultivated by its members. Attitudes of victory or resentment, love or hatred, trust or distrust, are expressed and cultivated in the telling and re-telling of the history. […] Distrust of whites, which was warranted in the past, is warranted not only by events today but by these long-ago betrayals and injustices. (Govier 1997:200)

As memories of the reserve’s creation make clear, distrust has also seeped into the community’s social fabric, generating tensions between families: “We have to stop living in confusion amongst one another. We do not trust for good reasons. The Government knows this and capitalises on our lack of trust to make and justify deals” (My translation, Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, lakeside close to Maniwaki). 71 | In 2010 a psychologist came every Tuesday to the reserve clinic for a few months but ended-up discontinuing because “he said people were not ready to work on themselves,” recalled one of the nurses I interviewed in 2011. “But if you put yourself in a relationship where you wait for people to open up to you, well (laughs) you’re going to wait a while! People did not know what to say there, it was almost a bit ridiculous.” (My translation, Martine, 43, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

Chapter 4 – Agency and Distrust: How the Past Shapes the Present

The stories people remember travel into the present and are used to make sense of it, for example while I was visiting him in his home at Barriere Lake, Pidajemo Peneshish told me he had just been caught by the police for driving in the bush without a license and fined $2200 CAD. There was no way he was going to pay this, he explained, as those rules do not apply in the bush, on his territory. As stories of harvesting despite hunting bans and game warden harassment illustrate, Pidajemo Peneshish’s refusal to abide by government rules goes a long way back and reveals an important feature of Mitchikanibikok Inik collective identity: resistance. Common concern for deforestation still regularly brings families together to block logging roads and to protest against the forestry activities unfolding on their territory. This resistance is important because it counterbalances the victimisation risk brought forward by the narratives of mistreatment and suffering that run the danger of obfuscating the agency that runs deep in Mitchikanibikok Inik history and sense of self.

H istorical tr auma , tr auma and resistance At one level, the narratives in this chapter reflect quite well the “4 c’s” of historical trauma: colonial injury; collective experience of these injuries; cumulative effects of these injuries; and cross-generational impacts of these injuries (Hartman and Gone 2014). But they do so in a very different way from the TRC: for instance, the cross-generational impacts mentioned by the elders were about how land destruction impacts the ability to teach young people today (it is no longer possible because the bush has been depleted). In contrast, the inter-generational impacts under the spotlight at the TRC run alongside the “cycle of abuse” doctrine (that a victim of violence or sexual abuse becomes an abuser). In 2010 I had the opportunity to interview Cindy Blackstock, Gitxsan Executive Director of the First Nations Child and Family Caring Society of Canada and recipient of numerous awards for her advocacy work on Aboriginal child welfare. She argues: It concerns me very deeply when the focus of discussion is on multi-generational grief. Because that’s not all that we inherited. We also inherited multi-generational strength, and wisdom, and knowledge. And yet the focus particularly from non-Aboriginal people is to define us as at risk, vulnerable and marginalised. Which does nothing to robust our humanity. It creates us as the other to other Canadians. It reinforces a sense of ineptitude. And hopelessness, and it also does that for our kids. I remember growing up in the bush and my family, my mother is Austrian and my father is First Nations, and I remember a lot of people talking about the healing path and I thought: you know what, no thanks! Do I want to grow up to be on the healing path? When other kids can grow up to be doctors or nurses or other things? Like why is it that our future and our reality is

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Her objection to being framed as an “at-risk” inheritor of inter-generational injuries is precisely the risk that runs alongside the HT framework if it does not include resilience and resistance factors in its response (HTR) model. In “Rethinking Historical Trauma: Narratives of Resilience” Denham concludes that HT needs to be separated from responses to trauma, which can be both pathological and resilient (2008). Reinforcing this point, Kirmayer, Gone and Moses argue that the “relative success and influence of Jewish people throughout the diaspora in the wake of the Holocaust would seem to contradict (or at least seriously complicate) the claim that historical trauma is prone to “snowballing” across generations into formidable legacies of distress and disability” (2014:308). As the narratives in this chapter reveal, participants remember events way beyond residential school that enlarge the contextual bedrock they want us to consider when addressing residential schools and their legacy. Though the examples in this chapter reveal remembering as a place of oscillation between victimhood and agency, Mitchikanibikok Inik collective memory clearly emphasises agency and reveals the bricolage way that people remember the past when outside IRSSA spaces: they use what they like from the HT frame (mostly collective suffering) and from trauma discourse (see chapter six). But they also insist on their own resistance and resilience, something that is not usually discussed hand in hand with those concepts. This chapter shows that Mitchikanibikok Inik elders of various generations remember their early childhood as vested with respect and freedom. It also highlights how memories of suffering and hardships are balanced with memories of resistance and resilience, and how important this is in the shaping of a sense of collective identity that insists on agency more than victimhood. By telling these stories of resistance, the Mitchikanibikok Inik digest their past and reinforce their composite sense of selves, a self-understanding that defines ego, land and collectivity as one. This reveals the futility of applying a framework that mostly approaches the past in an either collective (HT) or individual (T) fashion. If a serious limitation to the HT approach is that it overshadows individual suffering, the next chapters explore how collective and individual suffering are here intertwined here because of the “diversity” of abuses: removal of children from community (HT) and sexual/physical/emotional abuse to individuals (T). I argue these approaches should best be seen as complementary. Both mixing and moving beyond these approaches (beyond suffering and pathological responses to it), survivors also revealed a deep-seated distrust, the consequences of which are explored in later chapters.

Chapter 5 Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

The impetus for this chapter stems from the assertion made by Röttger-Rössler et al. that “the appropriateness of childhood development trajectories should always be judged in relation to indigenous cultural child-rearing ideals, which are deeply intertwined with the central values and the social and economic constitution of that particular society.” (2013:261) Drawing from this, Röttger-Rössler et al. argue that there is a strong interdependency between a society’s child-rearing values and goals, its emotionally arousing child-rearing practices, and their socialising effects via socialising emotions (2013:261). My aim with this chapter is to outline, compare and contrast these above interlinked factors (child-rearing values, methods and their induced emotions and socialising effects) according to two main groups: the Mitchikanibikok Inik Algonquins, and the Catholic Oblates and Sisters who worked at the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos). Note that in order to provide an in-depth qualitative analysis, this chapter mainly focuses on Amos where most survivors who participated in this study went, and not on the Ontario schools. To begin this exploration, this chapter first provides a general outlook on schooling and residential schools in Quebec, as well as formal schooling and the Mitchikanibikok Inik. Drawing from the theory of socialising emotions (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013), I then proceed to an exploration of Algonquin child-rearing through existing literature and the memories of Mitchikanibikok elders. More precisely I first examine what is meant by socialisation of emotions and education before exploring how that applied to what is known of Algonquin childhood: the child-rearing goals/values, the emotionally arousing child-rearing practices and the emotions and socialising effects thereby induced. In order to understand what was at stake for the Mitchikanibikok Inik with residential school, this chapter then brings us to the educational vision and method at Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos), the school that was most attended by community members. Drawing from clergy archives (written sources) and

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from existing literature 72 I provide a basis for fleshing out how the emotionally arousing child-rearing practices of the Algonquins and the Oblates/Sisters were at odds despite their concern for similar values and their use of the same socialising emotions (fear and shame). I argue that an emotional regime of domination, the impacts of which will be explored in next chapter, was made possible by the way in which the Oblates and Sisters utilised fear and shame. In this way, this chapter serves as a contextual backdrop to better understand the survivor perspectives explored in the next chapter.

S chooling and residential schools in Q uebec Though a 1920 amendment to the Indian Act (ch.50, s.10) made school attendance mandatory for Aboriginal children between the ages of seven and fifteen, this kind of federal regulation had little if no impact in the province of Quebec where school attendance (for all children) was not mandatory until 1943 (for more on schooling in Quebec see Galarneau 1978, Dumont 1990 and Dufour 1997). Effectively, though the Indian residential school system was well established by the early 1880s in western Canada, it was comparatively later in Quebec that it developed with the opening of St-Phillip Residential School in 1934 (TRC report 2012:6). This was the result of years of pressure by the Catholic Oblates of Mary Immaculate who were entrusted with the running of the Quebec schools (Bousquet 2006:5). In a 2006 article entitled “A Generation in Politics: the Alumni of the SaintMarc-de-Figuery Residential School” Bousquet provides an outline of the political context that surrounded the emergence of the residential school system in Quebec. She underlines how the creation of the Quebec schools unfolded at a time when the objectives of the system had changed compared to those of 19th century schools (2006:5). Drawing from the work of Noel Dyck (1983) and Michel Lavoie (2005) she explains that “after the Second World War, the Federal government realised that its aim of assimilating Indians and giving them equal status to Euro-Canadians was a failure” (2006:5). Influenced partly by Aboriginal Peoples demands for social reform, the Federal government’s policy switched its aim from wanting to “civilise” pupils to raising the socio-economic standard in Aboriginal communities to that of other Canadians (2006:5-6). Ed72 | The Oblate and Sisters’ perspective that I offer here is from religious archives and existing literature. I did not conduct interviews with religious members for mainly two reasons: first because it was not the goal of this research to uncover contemporary religious understandings of the past (for this see Tremblay 2008 and Niezen 2013); and second because unlike the Mitchikanibikok Inik, the Oblates had a voice and made use of it in ways that were recorded in writing (for example in the Vie Indienne newspaper).

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

ucation was considered a cornerstone towards this achievement, and from 1946 until 1948 special Parliamentary committee hearings were held on possible revisions to be made to the Indian Act. These resulted in various suggestions, including one stating that Aboriginal students be integrated into the provincial education systems. As of 1951, the Indian Act was accordingly revised and the Federal government could conclude financial agreements with provincial school authorities regarding the schooling of Aboriginal children in public and private schools (Hot 2010:10). In the light of this new integration policy, the opening of the bulk of the Quebec residential schools in the 1950s and 1960s comes across as surprising (Hot 2010:11). After the 1946 hearings it was clear that the Aboriginal people who had been consulted wanted to take control of their schools without the participation of the churches, but in Quebec “even if Indian education was slowly becoming a priority, there was no question of entrusting schooling to any but the Oblates, who had no intention of relinquishing control of ‘their’ schools to the government” (Bousquet 2006:6). As later developed, the Oblate reluctance to let go of their hold on the Aboriginal educational front was partly ideological. It can also be examined within the provincial political context of the time: the 1960s was a period of intense change in Quebec, known as the Quiet Revolution. During this time, the liberal government of Jean Lesage developed a new nationalism arguing that Quebec had to be secularised, modernised and democratised (Conway 1997:52). This would be the beginning of the end in terms of Oblate control of education, entailing more generally a major power shift and a realignment of the Church’s role in Quebec. Effectively, since the 1840s Aboriginal schooling in Quebec was almost entirely in the hands of the Catholic Church who used education in its power struggles against the protestant Church and against the threat of provincial secular education (Chaurette 2011:150).73 The late development and low number of residential schools in Quebec reflects the fact that the Catholic Church’s priority had been to establish missions in the west and north-west of Canada where there was more competition with other churches (Ottawa 2010:20). Moreover, a large portion of the Aboriginal population living south of Quebec

73 | Before that, the creation of Aboriginal schools in the early half of the 19 th century had been the result of various private religious and Aboriginal initiatives (Chaurette 2011:153). These schools for Aboriginal children were comparable to other schools that existed at the time and developed at a similar rhythm (Chaurette 2011:54). According to Mathieu Chaurette the Catholic Church’s involvement really started to dominate in the mid 1840s and coincided with the arrival of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate who established many schools in their missions across the country (2011:150). For a more general overview of “The Catholic Church in Quebec – its role and development over the centuries” (my translation) see Majchrzyk 2004.

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province was already attending (mostly private) day schools before Confederation in 1867 (Bourdaleix-Manin et Loiselle 2011:271). The later establishment of residential schools in Quebec would be generally based on a vision of school as a kind child-welfare facility, rooted in the belief that acculturation and sedentarisation are necessary for the future integration and success of Aboriginal children (TRC report 2012:19; Loiselle and Roy 2007:19). In the 1950s the Oblates were clearly in opposition with the idea of integrating Aboriginal children into provincial education systems. In a research report on the Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery, Marguerite (Margot) Loiselle and Chantal Roy claim that while it had to support the new educational integration policy, the federal government actually agreed with the Oblates that residential schools were the best places to educate Aboriginal children (2007:19). Figure 12: Residential Schools of Canada. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2011 (modified)

In Quebec, there were officially six residential schools: St-Phillip (1934-1979) and Fort George also known as Mission St-Joseph (1936-1952, afterwards it became a private school) both located at Fort George; Notre-Dame de Sept-îles (1952-1967) located in Mani-Utenam; Amos or Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (19551973) located at Saint-Marc-de-Figuery; Pointe Bleue (1957-1965) located at Lac-Saint-Jean; and La Tuque (1962-1980). Two of the schools were run by the Anglican Church (St-Phillip and La Tuque), and four were run by the Catholic

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

Oblates. There were also four federal hostels located in what is today called Nunavik in Northern Quebec and two more federal hostels; one located at Fort George and one recently recognised by the IRSSA at Mistassini (IRSSA website, last accessed September 2015).

F ormal schooling and the M itchik anibikok I nik As mentioned in earlier chapters, the history of formal schooling of Mitchikanibikok Inik children did not begin with the Residential School of Saint-Marcde-Figuery (called “Amos” by most respondents and hereon referred to as such). In 1950 a first generation was sent to two different residential schools in Ontario: Spanish and Saint-Mary’s. It is hard to know if this was partly at the request of the parents themselves or a decision taken entirely by Indian Affairs. One of my informants, Grace, remembered being picked-up with her siblings by an Indian Affairs agent in 1950 and taken to Ottawa where she boarded a train that took her to residential school at Kenora (Spanish). Archival notes from Bechmann-Khera mention the drowning of Grace’s father which left her mother with six children, and that “the Indian agency found places for the four older children at the Indian Boarding School in Kenora, Ontario” (1962:26). Sheila also remembered having been sent to residential school in Ontario in 1950 and described it as a decision that had been made by her grandmother, whom she held a grudge against for years. Book 1 Photo Album on St. Mary’s Indian Residential School (Kenora, Ontario) put together by the Residential School Research, Archive and Visitor Centre and The Shingwauk Project (December 2008) provides a chart of the places of origin of the students who attended the school between 1943 and 1952 (2008:58). For the year 1950 it lists children arriving from Maniwaki, the closest town and adjacent Algonquin reserve (Kitigan Zibi) south of the Mitchikanibikok Inik. Though it was not possible for me to find out how the decision had been made to send Mitchikanibikok Inik children to residential schools in Ontario (I counted at least eleven children just among my informants’ families), it can be presumed that they were sent along in 1950 with other Algonquin children from Maniwaki. Writing about the seasonal school at Rapid Lake in her 1961 fieldwork notes (restricted access, Canadian Museum of History 74), Bechmann-Khera writes that Josephine Monatch “started the school a few years ago to help the work of the over-burdened missionary and tried to get help by the government, which took quite a while, lastly she could move her school from the tent into a one 74 | I was given permission by the museum archives to consult and use these restricted access fieldnotes as long as I did not refer to allegations made in them.

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classroom building. Much of the equipment and toys are hers (toys from her children)” (1961 no page numbers). In later fieldwork notes from 1964, Bechmann-Khera details: “In 1951, a lady of the band – Mrs. Josephine Monatch – who had received (a formal) education, opened (at the) request of the missionary a simple summer school for the children at Rapid Lake” (1964:9). Bechmann-Khera quotes Monatch75 on the initial resistance of Mitchikanibikok Inik parents regarding the summer school, she writes: Mrs. Monatch has a seasonal school from the end of May to mid-October. In the beginning the parents were very much against their children’s schooling. “They always blamed me for everything (that) was wrong with the children. Even now, they all have not fully accepted it. They don’t understand that their children might need to know things in the years coming” (but) “the children like school. It is a nice change for them.” The children from (ages) five to seven Mrs. Monatch has in a “kind of kindergarten.” The children play with simple toys and crayons. She teaches the older children all together in one class. (Open access 1961:22)

As of 1955 the government built a one-room school building and employed Monatch as a regular teacher. “In 196376, however, the government decided to send the lower grade pupils to a French-speaking boarding school in Amos, from where the children return to their families only during summer and at Christmas.” (Bechmann-Khera 1964:9) Bechmann-Khera fieldnotes reveal the influence of the priest (and of the teacher) in the community while also pointing to uneasiness visible in the missionary-community relationship in 1964: The former spirit of gay improvization had returned. But again an end was put to it when the missionary suggested another “Indian song”. A few hesitating voices joined the sin75 | Note that though Josephine Monatch was “a lady of the band” she was not originally from there and had been mostly raised according to French and English settler ways. According to Bechmann-Khera (1961:2-3; 1962:2-3), Monatch (born 1911) was the daughter of Michel Coté, second chief Pizendatwitch of Maniwaki in 1928-1929. Her mother was half French “half Indian” and died when Monatch was seven years old. Monatch and her brother were thereafter raised in an Anglophone orphanage in Ottawa where she stayed for seven years (age seven to fourteen): “She could not talk Indian when she left the orphanage at age 14 and was married (arranged by her father) to Nona Monatch” (1961:2). Monatch then moved to his family in Rapid Lake where she learned the language. She had learned English at the orphanage and spoke a bit of French thanks to her mother. 76 | 1962 is more exact. Participants who were among the first to be sent from the community started at Amos in 1962.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions ging. After this there were about 10 minutes where nothing happened. At last the priest suggested (singing) a “song to Mary” before everybody (went) home. This was done, the Indians singing in a muffled voice. Only the missionary and Mrs. Monatch could be heard clearly. Everybody left, last of all the priest, as the children had to be sent to boarding school the next day. The next day after mass the priest announced that at 2:00 in the afternoon he would hold a ceremony in the graveyard. (The gathering) began with Paul Matchewan, (who) gave a speech. Then Mrs. Monatch, who with her husband had taken a seat on the last bench, addressed the band. She did not stand up for it, and, as customary when addressing the public, had her eyes lowered. She talked about the poor attendance at school and explained that the children would not have been sent to boarding school by the government if they had been sent regularly to their own school at Rapid Lake. She condemned the drinking excesses, and said that it was the Indians’ fault if they permitted people to come here and sell them liquor. She said: “If somebody came to my place to sell me liquor he’d get the stuff on his head. They don’t come to my place for selling me liquor!” (Mrs. Monatch delivered her speech in Indian, later explaining the content of it to me.) During the speech of Mrs. Monatch the priest came and sat down next to Nona. When she had finished, Aleck stood up to give a speech. He said that in (the) “old days” the priest had known how to speak Indian better, and had given sermons twice a day; but this was (no longer) the case now. That way he tried to blame the priest for the excessive liquor (use) which Mrs. Monatch had pointed out. After a few comments by an old couple, the priest, who had not understood much of what Aleck had said, stood up and explained how he would like the graveyard to be fenced. (Bechmann-Khera 1964:45-46)

This long archival excerpt is interesting for several reasons. First it strongly suggests that the government was the initiator in sending Mitchikanibikok Inik children to Amos, and that the priest’s influence in 1964 was limited due to lack of language proficiency. Second it shows that community members were initially not too enthused about having a school at Rapid Lake, and that attendance was poor. It finally also reveals that drinking was already somewhat of an issue in the community, though it is today commonly described as a post-residential school effect 77. Before turning to the Oblate educational vision and method at Amos, I will first examine what is known of child-rearing values and practices among the Algonquins.

77 | That alcoholism was present since the fur trade is a well-established fact – see for instance the writings of oblate J-N Laverlochère who worked as a missionary in the mid1850s in Maniwaki (Carrière 1963:111).

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A lgonquin socialisation of emotions : child - re aring goals ( and values) and emotionally arousing child - re aring pr actices Socialisation of emotions and education Building on Naomi Quinn’s work on the universal features of child-rearing 78 and on Lev Vygotsky’s genetic law of development 79, Röttger-Rössler et al. propose the term socialising emotion “to clarify and explain the psychological underpinnings of how children are emotionally prepared and primed in the socialization process” (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013:262). They define the concept of socialising emotions “by the function they play in the internalization of social norms and standards” (2013:263). This entails that culture-specific emotionally arousing child-rearing practices (for instance beating, shaming, teasing or praising) teach children to adjust both their behaviour and their emotional repertoire according to the normative prescriptions of their culture. Thus in order to understand the experience of Mitchikanibikok Inik children in residential school, it is necessary to first explore Algonquin child-rearing goals and educational practices. All together these will have shaped the socialisation and development of emotions among the children before residential school and can help us shed light on resulting emotional conflicts (explored in the next chapter). Child-rearing and education are often defined as overlapping concepts. While child-rearing includes a more nurturing component and covers the whole process of bringing up a child, education is part of its overall definition and needs to be defined in a way that can help us understand how Algonquins understood education in contrast to the residential school (religious) approach. Instead of approaching the Algonquin understanding of education with the loaded concepts of indigenous knowledge or indigenous education (both emerged in reaction to western ethnocentric beliefs of what can be considered knowledge), I use the term informal education as defined by Pierre Dasen (2008): ‘traditional’ education may wrongly suggest that this type of education is linked to the past, that it is no longer being practiced, or then only in traditional, for example, rural, 78 | In an article entitled “Universals of child rearing” Quinn claims child-rearing universally depends upon the four following features: constancy of experience, emotional arousal (practices such as corporal punishment, mocking, frightening, shaming, praising, encouraging or cherishing), evaluation (approving or disapproving a child) and predispositional priming (2005:480-482). 79 | Vygotsky’s genetic law of psychological development proposes that emotions “become internalized so effectively that they can exert their control function already without prior disciplining” (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013:260).

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions sectors of society. This is not at all what is intended, and hence I prefer to speak of ‘informal’ education. But that label may also be misunderstood: it may wrongly suggest that this education does not have any form, that it is unstructured and haphazard. As we will shortly see, that is not at all the case: there is distinctly an informal pedagogy, although it often remains implicit and even those who practice it are not conscious of it. To describe this informal pedagogy, detailed ethnographic (observational) research is needed. (2008:26)

In an article entitled “Cognitive Aspects of Informal Education” (1982) Patricia Greenfield and Jean Lave list some of the “idealised” characteristics of informal education as: It is embedded in daily life activities; the learner is responsible for obtaining knowledge and skill; it is personal – relatives are appropriate teachers; there is little or no explicit pedagogy or curriculum; maintenance of continuity and tradition are valued; learning by observation and imitation; teaching by demonstration; it is motivated by social contribution of novices and their participation in adult sphere. (1982:183)

All of these characteristics were described in the memories of early childhood (before residential school) examined in the previous chapter. As one participant said when I asked her how she understood education: “There’s education which is already structured, but there’s also education about life, understanding life, understanding your environment and what’s in your environment. What are your medicines, what are your foods, where are you gonna find your tools” (Diana, 56, August 2010, bush campsite close to airport, VWR).

Algonquin childhood Before turning to child-rearing goals and values, I shall briefly outline the main stages of Algonquin developmental periods that shape when children are expected to acquire skills and values. Roark-Calnek describes traditional Algonquin childhood in two broad stages: a time for watching and listening (encouraged early on with the use of the tikinâgan in which the baby faces out towards the world) and a time for learning by play80, practice and participation (1991:14-15). It can be argued that these two stages are still observable today on reserve, and 80 | Larose explores Algonquin “bush-oriented learning” on the basis of play (and legends) and distinguishes “private games”, “social games” and “production-oriented games”. He claims social games are related to two specific purposes: “hunting skills and knowledge of some big game behavior (i.e. moose and deer), through cognitive projection and identification with the prey’s strategies; and (2) social rules and the affective equilibrium of the children” (1991:85).

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babies and very young toddlers in the ‘observational stage’ are often described as “under-stimulated” by outsiders involved in community health and social work. These stages are moreover reflected in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin vocabulary: there is one word for baby and toddler: tciji (watching and listening stage) and one word for younger child: abinojîc (stage two). Respondents claimed that as of about age thirteen (until age thirty or so) youth are now called ockenîgedjik, and that an older word no longer in common use for these young adults (as of age thirteen girls were of marriageable age) was weckonîgejik. According to Bousquet, in the semi-nomadic lifestyle days it was important to keep children from loud crying or boisterous behaviour in the forest so as not to scare away the animals (2002:82). To keep a baby or a small child from crying meant responding immediately to his/her needs, and therefore it is not surprising that prolonged nursing (one year or longer) was still custom among the Mitchikanibikok Inik in 1961 (Bechmann-Khera 1961:15) and that much older reports from the early 1900’s reveal that breastfeeding a child until he/she was four or five years old was not unusual back then (MacPherson 1930:103; Lévesque 2013:91). There was a gradual movement from childhood dependency into responsible interdependency (Roark-Calnek 1996:67 in Nickels 1999:59). Autonomy and cooperation were skills acquired throughout childhood and tasks were split according to age and gender, meaning that boys usually learned from their father in the bush (hunting, cleaning animals etc.) and girls from their mothers at the camp or close by (how to snare rabbits, prepare food, fetch water etc.) (Bousquet 2002:83). The more experienced children became, the more autonomy and responsibility they acquired. The learning process, a comprehensive process via praxis, was for instance reflected in trapping practices for boys and girls starting ages eight to fourteen years old, and with moose hunting for boys starting ages ten to fourteen years old (for more on this see Nickels 1999:6063). Children had extended kinship networks and were commonly reared by other adults than their biological parents (Bousquet 2012:174). Older siblings or “child nurses” (agwa kicîmek) were also often put in charge of younger children (Roark-Calnek draft annotations I/1961:7 to Bechmann-Khera). There was no adolescence and it was a girl’s first period that indicated she was of marriageable age while boys were considered adults around age sixteen (Bousquet 2012:174). Arranged marriage at a relatively young age (fourteen-fifteen for the girls) was still custom when the Mitchikanibikok Inik settled at Rapid Lake in the early 1960’s (Bechmann-Khera 1961:19). A 1996 article on Mitchikanibikok Inik wedding customs by Roark-Calnek mentions: “At present, courtship may begin as early as 12 or 13 (for young women), although the onset of living together as a recognised couple (wîdigemâdowin (consensual companionship) or nîbâwîwin (marital union) happens later, in the middle teens or even later” (1996:162).

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

As underlined in chapter three, non-interference (and often humour) guided communication between people (this is still relevant today). Non-interference can be directly linked to the encouragement of individual initiative from childhood and is also described among other Aboriginal populations (for instance for the Cree see Preston 1982:301). Providing a good illustration of non-interference and humour, the following interview excerpt of an elder recalling a conversation with his father highlights what he describes as a kind of indirect communication: And then as young boy and young girl there is time for them to learn more. And this is what you try to understand, and he said I don’t know if you have noticed this, and I tried to understand what he was trying to tell me, and then he told me in a different way, not to be too direct. He tells me, well, you must have noticed you remember when you did this, the additional duties, and there’s reason for that, we gave you this additional responsibility because you changed your pipe (laughs). And it’s the same thing for the girls, and that’s when we give them additional responsibilities. When they’re bleeding, when their nose is bleeding he says. He just put it like that, simple like that. And I tried to understand that. And then “what do you mean?” I asked him what he meant. “Oh just talk to your mom he’s going to explain it to you” he says (laughs). And so I asked my mom when we went to check the net, the fishnets. And then I asked my mom “my father told me this: and then what did he meant by that” and then (laughs) she explained to me what it meant, it was about the teenager’s puberty (laughter) and cause me I was asking you know how come my sister is not bleeding through her nose? (laughter) What did he mean when I changed my pipe? (laughter) My voice must have changed. They just had a way of communicating eh, to push me to go for those answers by talking to my mom. That kind of family relationship. My dad had a basic information and my mom fine-tuned it. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

Low interference and coercion on behalf of adults gave children the impression that what they learned was never imposed on them. Participants insisted on this (see previous chapter) and linked it to their understanding of freedom: this is what it meant to be free.

Child-rearing goals (and values) The central childhood lessons of learning about respect81, humility, non-interference and cooperation (unanimously described by respondents in the previous chapter) are important because we can assume they reflect the society’s child-rearing goals and values. Confirmed by the role and teachings acquired 81 | Manadjitôn: “to respect, behave appropriately and circumspectly toward, avoid wasting” (Roark-Calnek draft annotations II/1962:12 to Bechmann-Khera).

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by children in feast rituals (as described in the previous chapter), that respect is a central tenet of the Algonquin belief system is also backed by much research (Bousquet 2008:63). Nevertheless, it is important to specify how this fundamental value interlinks to the emotionally arousing child-rearing practices that were applied by parents and relatives of former students. Along with respect as a main child-rearing goal for the Algonquins, I also include early autonomy (linked to non-interference and the value of freedom) and cooperation as the other main goals and values. Indeed it makes sense that a bush society that is both highly cooperative as well as reliant on individual autonomy for good functioning would encourage early autonomy and cooperation as its main child-rearing goals.

Emotionally arousing child-rearing practices In their memories of life before residential school, respondents spoke of mainly three emotionally arousing child-rearing practices that they remembered having experienced as children: punishment (via imposed activity), mockery (ridicule) and storytelling (more as preventive). Backed by existing literature, there is especially evidence of mockery as a dominant child-rearing method among Algonquins (Bousquet 2012:175). These three key child-rearing practices emerged from memories participants shared of their early childhoods. For instance, Grace talked of a form of punishment she got for not behaving: “I was well. I learned everything, what my mother teach me. I learn how to clean moose meat, to clean beaver, you know. She’s started me off with a little squirrel to skin it, if I wanted to skin. If I was mischievous, you know, then she would say skin this, get a little knife, skin it and put it on the board after” (Grace, 71, August 2011, at her cabin in the bush, VWR). When I responded by asking her how many squirrels she’d had to skin for having been naughty, Grace laughed and answered “oh not too many”. This example of ‘imposed activity’ as a form of punishment was more common than physical punishment, which was not the norm but existed as well82 . Some participants remembered having been occasionally disciplined with a whip, but physical violence was not valued as the following excerpt reveals:

82 | In 1964 Bechmann-Khera noted that children are rarely disciplined and then usually verbally. She observed the application of physical measures as “sometimes (applied) to children between one to about six or seven years of age. The child is given a few slight slaps on back, head or buttocks which hardly produce any pain. Nevertheless smaller children react with wailing to this treatment, and the person who had given the slaps tries to quiet the child by giving him food or by patting him” (1964:30). She also noted that older sisters were much less lenient than parents or other relatives of a child (as) far as physical punishment was concerned.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions I thought, you know, ’cause you know we use to get those twigs there, and then one time we broke the car, it wasn’t running or anything but I know I had no business to go over there, you know, me and a bunch of other kids. And then when my grandfather heard about it, it was a small community ’cause he use to have his house just there, a cabin, so I guess he heard the noise too, and sure enough you could see him coming and everybody started running you know, the kids started running you know (chuckles). Because he was, I don’t know if he was the person that was looking after the kids too, because all the kids were scared of him too you know (laughs) and then he would give us the whip there you know (laughs). But me, I thought you know like being punished for the stuff that I did, it didn’t bother me you know, because I did something wrong and my grandfather that was the way he grew up I guess with that too, but he use to tell us after you know, when we got a little older, that the spanking, or the punishment he calls it, the punishment like there’s two kinds of punishment he said. You can use the same thing and beat up anybody like using that whip he said, and then you have another one if a child does something wrong then you can use that whip he says, but there’s two kinds he says, so you have to decide where you suppose to use that it’s not to abuse or try to hurt somebody, not like the other one there, that’s what he told us. So but he never really hit hard, just enough so we won’t do it again. (Victoria, 62, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

Victoria underlines that the difference between physical punishment and physical violence was clear. In an article entitled “Etres libres ou sauvages à civiliser?” Bousquet discusses the tension between the general agreement that traditional Algonquin education rejected severity83, while many of her informants who knew semi-nomadic life also remembered that their parents did not put up with transgressions and sometimes strapped them (2012:175). Still, she argues: […] we shall concentrate on the fact that the discourse, even if the action does not always follow, is against coercion, in particular against physical violence. In general, still today, not much is said to the children: they try things out, receive small responsibilities early and are fed upon demand. Their demands and requests are satisfied as much as possible without it being understood as “spoiling”. (My translation, Bousquet 2012:176)

In relation to the Mitchikanibikok Inik, archives support the idea that they did not discipline children in a way that was standard and recognisable to Euro-Canadians at the time (for whom the norm was talking-down or physical punishment). Bechmann-Khera writes: “Mrs Monatch says (that) parents never 83 | In the literature, Aboriginal child-rearing in general is described as non-coercive, non-confrontational and as making use of indirect techniques (see for instance E. Anderson 2009 for the Innu; Briggs 1970, 1998, 2000 and 2008 for the Inuit; K. Anderson 2011 (chapters three and four) for the Métis, Cree and Anishnabe).

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discipline their children. When she herself rebukes them in school, they never talk back. “They look so humiliated that I feel really bad having rebuked them.” Her strictest discipline in school has a child kneel in the corner.” (1961:15-16) That children would be so humiliated meant that a public ‘top-down’ verbal scolding was a very strong disciplinary measure for them (as well as being excluded from the group by being forced to kneel in the corner), and that the use of shaming as a behaviour regulator must have been used by their parents (or other adults) already at a much more subtle level for it to be this effective. Mockery and storytelling are two other child-rearing techniques that surfaced in discussions with community members. Evidence of mockery as a disciplinary tool among Algonquins was already mentioned in MacPherson’s 1930 study in which he writes: “Children are seldom disciplined. They learn by following the example of their parents. Ridicules is a disciplinary weapon that can be used effectively; the children dislike to be ‘made fun of’” (MacPherson 1930:102). Mockery and ridicule, for instance of behaviour interpreted as too childish (for this Bousquet gives the example of a five year-old still bottle feeding [2012:175]) or inappropriate, generated a sense of agadji (shyness/ self-awareness/embarrassment) which children had to learn to master. Indeed “Algonquin education valorized self-control (including not being susceptible to mockery), patience, endurance and cool-headedness in a social environment where emotional expression had to be discreet” (Bousquet 2012:176). Participants also spoke of the importance of stories as learning tools and preventive behaviour mechanisms84. In this sense stories are lessons that are given metaphorically by elders to the children (Hjartarson 1995:216). François Larose, in his study of Algonquin “bush-oriented learning” on the basis of legends and play, argues along these lines that legends are educational devices or “didactic instruments” that are useful for providing “a set of social and behavioural rules that must be internalized by each individual in order to ensure a basic stability and security within the production units (isolated families or groups of relatives)” (1991:85). Therefore the stories of Windigo (a monster that

84 | Beyond providing instruction in proper cultural behaviour and values, stories (legends and myth narratives) in Algonquian language also had an entertainment purpose, see Spielmann 1998:186.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

lives in the forest and kills and eats humans85) that participants told me about (and which they deplored as mostly “gone” or “not spoken much about anymore”) can be in part interpreted as having served as tools to keep children from venturing too far from the group, especially at night (for more on Kokodi and Windigo stories see Bousquet 2002:480-482). Windigo is also described as an angry, norm-transgressing figure and in this sense stands as the antithesis of what is considered appropriate behaviour among the Algonquins. Bechmann-Khera (restricted access 1961 no page numbers) writes: The old folks use to tell lots of stories to the children but nowadays the old folks do not (?) anymore. They have forgotten all the old stories. Mrs M. said: “They really frightened me with their stories when I was a child.” In March when the snow is wet and they do not like the children to run around in it, they told them that the “Windigo” will get them. They said he eats people, looking like a gorilla.

Agadji and fear – Induced emotions and socialising effects The main emotion induced from the most common child-rearing practices described above: discipline via imposed activity and mockery, seems to have been agadji. Participants described agadji as a form of shyness that also can mean embarrassment and comes closest to our conception of shame, without the negative connotation. This also sets it apart from the kind of social shyness “that sometimes verges on terror” described by Brant (1990:538) as the result of a humiliating superego (see chapter three). The word agadji transforms slightly depending on how it’s used, for instance “I am shy” would be nedagadjinen. Therefore agadji (in its various forms pertaining to shyness, embarrassment or shame) could have been the main socialising emotion that, as defined by Röttger-Rössler et al. (2013), fosters the socialisation of normative standards and its “psychosocial function is to warn ego about the negative consequences of norm violation and to motivate norm compliance by overwriting the action 85 | Windigo stories seem to have been around for a long time. Already in his 1915 Myths and folk-lore of the Timiskaming Algonquin and Timigami Ojibwa Frank G. Speck defines Wi’ndigo as “a man-eating creature who roams through woods devouring luckless victims. He is believed to have commenced as a hunter who became lost in the bush, and lost all his provisions and clothing. Then he preyed upon anything he could find, like an animal” (1915:22). Windigo is described as responsible for mysterious deaths and disappearances and as controlling “insane persons” (Macpherson 1930:124). He is also described as a cannibal monster with a heart of ice inhabiting the northern woodlands of Canada (Waldram 2004:1992) and has been the subject of many ethnographies (see for instance the work of Hallowell 1955 or Preston 1980).

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readiness of the originally elicited emotion that is about to trigger norm-violating behavior with another and stronger action readiness that triggers a strong avoidance tendency” (2013:281). Susanne Jung’s findings pertaining to malu (“shame”) among the Minangkabau in Indonesia (in Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013) show that the collection of shame-inducing child-rearing practices of the Minangkabau support the more general development hypothesis about the social origin of shame as a fear of social exclusion. Practices of shaming – be it through ridicule or humiliation in the presence of others, or be it through ignoring children or physically excluding them from the community – frustrate the children’s need for belonging and attachment (Buss, 1980; Holodynski & Friedlmeier, 2006) and seem to be extremely effective mechanisms for getting them to display norm-compliant behavior. (2013:281)

Closely linked to agadji would therefore be the development of the capacity to regulate negatively perceived emotions such as anger, and would suggest that feeling agadji in an embarrassed or ashamed way is something to be avoided because it reveals a transgression (a lack of respect for instance) and thereby generates a fear of social exclusion. While being shy or embarrassed does not seem to have been negatively valued (in fact I was told that in some situations people should feel that way), I could find no evidence that it was (or is) favourably regarded in a moral sense. Jean Briggs (1970) writes in a similar way about the concept of kanngu (“shyness”) among the Utku (Inuit). Like agadji, for the Utku kunngu is an indigenous quality of shyness (and, it seems to me, of shame). Briggs describes kanngu as an absence of self-assertiveness, a form of modesty with regards to accomplishment (or lack of), modesty with regards to the naked body and an avoidance to display oneself. “People who feel kanngu are sometimes silent and refuse to talk, they blush, they avoid other’s eyes, and do not like to be seen.” (1970:351) These features can also be understood as displays of shame, which are often described as “gaze avoidance, hunching and hiding or withdrawing” (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013:2013). Yet if agadji was an important socialising emotion for the Mitchikanibikok Inik, it is also clear that it was laced with fear as a secondary socialising emotion: stories were meant to promote certain behaviours via fear (of the Windigo for instance), and fear can also be seen as having been a motor element of the Christianisation (see previous chapter) of Mitchikanibikok Inik people long before residential schools.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

A n E motional regime of domination :

educational vision and me thod at the I ndian S chool of S aint-M arc - de -F iguery (A mos)

R esidential

The acculturative educational vision of the Oblates and Sisters Written in French by the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate (O.M.I), a Roman Catholic community of priests and brothers, Vie Indienne was a quarterly newspaper that was published from 1957 until 1970. The eight-page news reports specialised in First Nations and Inuit news, focusing mostly on social and religious evolution with a particular emphasis on the Indian Residential Schools in Eastern Canada that were run by the Oblates. As such, Vie Indienne provides a good insight onto the Oblate educational vision and motivations, which can be extended to that of the Catholic Sisters of Saint-Francis of Assisi86 who also taught and looked after the girls at Amos. The quarterly’s aim “to publish in depth articles on the orientation to give our Indians threatened with disappearance by civilisation” (my translation, 1958 Vol.1 No.3) reveals what I term as a salvage missionary outlook. This outlook that “our Indians” needed protection from the bad influence of the whites and the threat of civilisation existed in contradiction with the idea that Indians had to adapt to and integrate the dominant Canadian system: “In 1958, the Oblates clearly indicated that Indian education was first about acculturation, the goal being to prepare the children for their integration into the Canadian population (Indian and Eskimo Welfare Commission, 1958)” (my translation, Loiselle and Roy 2007:18). The vision of ‘protective acculturation’ described in Vie Indienne articles87 was promoted as having to be gradual, methodical and pleasant for the children. In a research project report that sets out to give a portrait of the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery, Loiselle and Roy (2007) sum up the missionary perspective as: “[…] it is clear that they had good intentions to 86 | Note that in the Catholic Church sisters and nuns are not the same thing: while both make vows of celibacy, poverty and obedience, Catholic nuns live a more contemplative life in cloistered or semi-cloistered monasteries, whereas Catholic sisters live and are active in the world. 87 | I coded the fifty Vie Indienne issues. For the articles, I took into account the following variables: author, editor, overall positive (progressive, understood within the historical context) or negative tone of the article with regards to Aboriginal people, and subject (school/children/emotions/child-rearing). As more than half of the pictures in Vie Indienne were taken at Amos (70 out of 107 pictures) I also coded the pictures and took into account the following variables: location (residential school), children/adults, gender, age (pre-adolescent and adolescent), activity (representation and perception of children), and facial/bodily expressions.

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help, to defend, even to save the people whom they perceived as poor, isolated and abandoned pagans. However, their good intentions came up against the wall of their feelings of spiritual, religious and cultural superiority and their ambitions of a civilising ‘conquest’” (my translation, 2007:39). For the oblates, successful acculturation had to protect Indian children from the inequalities they would have faced in provincial schools, it had to prepare them for successful integration by teaching them skills (until 1958 there was a farm at Amos to teach the children about agriculture) and educating them, and it had to influence the children to encourage their parents to become settled Christians. A photo essay by Father Laviolette in Vie Indienne describes this intent to settle the still mostly semi-nomadic Quebec Aboriginals with the help of three pictures captioned: “Three stages in the acculturation of the Quebec Indian: the tent (or wigwam), the wooden roundhouse, the modern and hygienic house” (my translation, Vie Indienne 1957, Vol.1, No.1, page 4). While achieving sedentarisation was one important facet of acculturation, so was the separation of Aboriginal children from objectionable whites (from bootleggers to religious competitors, mostly in the form of Anglophone protestants) and from their parents: “The missionaries, and probably all of Canadian society, considered that Amerindians could only provide a form of minimal education, filled with superstition, to their children” (Bousquet 2012:183). In an article on the tenth anniversary of Amos, Sister Lucille Lucas wrote that the Oblates had “strongly encouraged parents to send their children to Amos to enable them to develop their talents and personality. More than 200 answered this call yearly. Unfortunately very few students persevered to their 7th year. They preferred their freedom and life outdoors to the stay in the residential school and the hard discipline of studying” (1966, Vol. 3 No.6). Here two beliefs emerge clearly. The first provides evidence to the claim that the Oblates wanted to separate the children from their families because they would be able to develop their talents and personality in residential school but not at home. This belief was widespread and was recurrent in several articles, stating for instance: “The way they bring-up their children is much more tolerant than ours and we therefore think that they badly love their children” (Mulvihill 1964, Vol.2 No.21). Or: “Until they are six, the children do not know what punishment means. But today, with civilization’s progress, the kids counting on this can be ready for a choc, more precisely, a kick in the backside” (1967, Vol.3 No.9). The second belief, underlying in the claim that Indian children preferred their freedom and their life outdoors rather than studying in a disciplined way, implies that the reason why they did not follow through to grade seven is due to their own laziness, and not because of the school or the system itself.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

A fissured vision This laziness belief was also widespread in the articles along with the perception of Indians as passive and needing help. This negative view of Aboriginals is sometimes in direct contradiction with other stated opinions in Vie Indienne, where Indians are described as: “full of imagination; having a wonderful sense of observation; being generous; loving and loyal to the family and children; respecting others and respecting paternal authority; discrete; diplomatic; and close to nature and God.” But this second belief is also a recognition that Aboriginal children at Amos valued freedom. A value that directly clashed with how the Oblates and Sisters believed they should be educated. In fact, Vie Indienne articles reveal a diversity of opinions among the Oblates (concerning what to do for the well-being of Indians) as well as several paradoxes in their educational project: “it sought to isolate in order to integrate; to understand the children’s culture in order to teach them another one; to help children retain two cultures, but only their good sides; to make children acknowledge the obsolescence of their culture (their parents’ culture) while valorising it so as to promote self-esteem” (my translation, Bousquet 2012:179). In the articles, opinions ranged from more progressive opinions, like Oblate André Renaud’s, to extremely conservative standpoints. Renaud for instance claimed that “[…] our current politics, tend to visibly, knowingly or not, exterminate them” (my translation, 1957 Vol.1 No.1 p.7). This exceptional claim questions the standard of the time argument that tends to regroup all the Oblates into one identical mind frame motivated by “good intentions”. By denouncing “our current politics”, Renaud reminds us that the individual person within the Church structure cannot be erased, creating complex relational dynamics that call for a contextualised analysis: one that takes into account both the institutional dimension and the personal agency of the Oblates in charge at Amos.

A class issue? To a certain extent, the paternalism directed towards Aboriginals can be compared to the paternalism that was directed to Canadian people considered of “lower class” – the idea that they are incapable of managing on their own and are somewhat responsible for their fate (poverty) because of their social origins. In this sense, residential schools are comparable to the specialised orphanages that existed in Quebec for children at “risk of becoming delinquents”; youth in foster care or children of poor families88 (Bousquet 2012:182). But Bousquet underlines one major aspect that brings us beyond this comparison: Aboriginal chil88 | Note that the comparison does not include boarding schools for rich children because “while abuses have occurred, elite youngsters have not faced the recurring den-

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dren in residential school were neither orphans nor abandoned children; they had parents who educated them89. The Vie Indienne articles and pictures reveal that though a class power struggle was part of the conjunction, it was conjoined to race issues that shaped Oblate’s educational vision, and the belief held by some Oblates (and probably most Canadians at the time) that Indians were less evolved than whites and that they could not educate their children satisfactorily. As already underlined, this does not mean that the Oblates rejected all aspects of – in the case of Amos – Algonquin, Atikamekw and Cree cultures. In fact, to the other extreme, some Oblates had a romantic “noble savage” perception of Aboriginals, which as mentioned above gave them a protective incentive. Yet they obviously had very clear ideas about what cultural aspects can stay and what should change for the sake of integration. For example, at Amos children were discouraged to speak in their native languages (they had to speak French) but prayers were broadcast through loudspeakers in Algonquin, Atikamekw and Cree in the hope of encouraging the children to pray with their parents during the holidays.

The goal of Christianisation, concomitant values and emotion norms Christianisation as a competing goal to acculturation and education comes across clearly in Vie Indienne articles. In fact, “moral, religious and language education was more important in residential school than academic and technical training” (Crytes 2013:18). The Oblates and Sisters identified with certain values like the notion of respect, which was fundamental to both the Algonquins and the Oblates. However Vie Indienne articles highlight other values and emotion norms; “feeling rules” that specify in which ways emotions are to be felt, by whom and when and how they should be expressed (in their form and intensity) (Hochschild 1979:557). Among others and emphasised as desirable by the Oblates in Vie Indienne were: humility and simplicity; without outbursts and loudness (low arousal); dedication to service and helping (materially and spiritually); blind obedience; patience; peace; joy (the children should feel joyful); control (of emotions, of pain, of body); not leaving things unplanned; making sacrifices; submission of Aboriginal adults towards Oblates; “giving igration of families and communities that have poisoned so many institutions for the disadvantaged” (Strong-Boag 2011:38). 89 | Though it could also be argued that children born out of wedlock were also removed from their mothers and put into foster care until the late 1960s and 1970s in Canada (Strong-Boag 2011:127), this practice was equally applied to all social classes – whether rich or poor. Therefore suggesting that (in the case of children born to single mothers) it was more of a general issue of moral custom than a specific class issue.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

children a taste for instruction, order, perseverance” (Amos 1966, Vol.3 No.6); and pride of sport-related success (essentially at hockey).

The educational methods of the Oblates and Sisters at Amos For the Oblates and Sisters the key to education (and happiness) was discipline. Discipline of the body and of the mind, which were administered from the moment the children set foot on school property at Amos: they were washed, their hair was cut short and treated for lice, they were given new cloths (their old cloths were burnt) and a number (for laundry purposes). Girls and boys were separated and followed a strict schedule that – until 1957 – started with having to get up at 5am to attend mass (Loiselle and Roy 2007:21). Drawing from Foucault’s Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison (1975), Bousquet calls this “le dressage des corps” (the training of the bodies) and describes it as linked to different methods: “surveillance, sanction, the lining up of beds, the strict timetables, the lining up of children, mandatory uniforms, the valorisation of exercise and repetition” (my translation, 2012:181 – see also Dian Million 2000:94 for the analogy between “carceral space” (as defined by Foucault) and residential school). This bodily control or “redressement” (straightening) as Bousquet calls it, was believed to elevate souls. The Oblates saw the child as an easily corruptible being in need of correction, weak and stained by original sin (Bousquet citing Malouin 1996:56). This was a common outlook in 1950s and 1960s in Quebec (and beyond), and the child was in some sort considered “as ‘savage’, a savagery here doubled by Aboriginality” (Bousquet 2012:184). For the Oblates and Sisters discipline required authority, and Loiselle and Roy (2007) delineate three periods (from hardest to easiest on the children) at Amos: 1955 to 1962, 1963 to 1968 and 1969 until 1973 when the school closed (2007:26). Regardless of their attendance spreading over these three periods, all eight Amos participants (generation two survivors) who contributed to this chapter had bad memories of their days there. Loiselle and Roy also mention a document that outlines school regulations with regards to physical punishment: children were only to be strapped (with a strap provided by Indian Affairs Canada) on their hands (nowhere else) by the school principal or in his presence or supervision and with at least one other witness. “The regulations stipulate that the number of hits should not be excessive or cause physical harm to the hand.” (Loiselle and Roy 2007:24) School principals were supposed to document each case of physical punishment and have this available to inspectors upon demand (Loiselle and Roy 2007:24 citing the Indian and Eskimo Welfare Oblate Commission, 1956).

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Fear and shame: an emotional regime of domination Authority meant physical punishment was the norm, and as survivor testimonies will make clear in the next chapter, there was little restraint at Amos where physical punishments were sometimes extreme, and where the above mentioned school regulations were often broken. Physical punishments induced fear in the children and was at odds with the upbringing they had known until then (as previously outlined). As the following chapter will also illustrate, the children were publicly shamed for enuresis (urinary incontinence at night), for their origins and for “never being good enough”. Using fear of physical punishment and fear of public shaming to bring the children to conform to their expectations, the Oblates’ horizontal (top-down) child-rearing methods can be associated to an emotional regime of domination primarily exercised through fear. William Reddy defines his concept of “emotional regime” as “the set of normative emotions and the official rituals, practices, and emotives that express and inculcate them; a necessary underpinning of any stable regime.” (Reddy 2001:129) To understand this concept, two points need clarification: “emotives” and, more importantly, the scope of “emotional regimes”: when does a group’s emotional style become a “regime”? By “emotives” Reddy means emotional expressions (that he calls “speech acts”) understood as both managerial and exploratory. “Emotives” are “an attempt to call up the emotion that is expressed; it is an attempt to feel what one says one feels. These attempts usually work, but they can and do fail. When they fail, the emotive expression is exploratory in the sense that one discovers something unexpected about one’s own feelings” (Reddy in Plamper 2010:240). The reflection on the scope of emotional regimes and the distinction between emotional “styles” and “regimes” matters because it underlines the importance of considering what is then at stake for individuals in a “regime”. Reddy argues that “our ability to grasp the political […] relies on our appreciation that emotional styles are enforced, that penalties and exclusion fall on those who do not conform to them. ‘Style’ becomes ‘regime’ when the sum of the penalties and exclusions adds up to a coherent structure, and the issue of conformity becomes defining for the individual” (emphasis added, Reddy in Plamper 2010:243). In illustration he provides the example of two customers screaming at each other in a restaurant. They will be asked to leave: this would be because they did not adopt the emotional style appropriate to restaurant etiquette. “We can begin to talk of an ‘emotional regime’ for consumers when we consider that, in many Western countries today, one might be deprived of the necessities of life, in effect, if one could not conform to at least one or two of the

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

range of emotional styles cumulatively ‘enforced’ on consumers.” (Emphasis added, Reddy in Plamper 2010:243) What is at stake here for individuals is the response to the following question: what is it that individuals lose by having to conform? Reddy puts it this way: That power is exercised is of no consequence unless there is something at stake. What is it the individual loses by submitting to, embracing unreflectively, a collectively constructed emotional common sense? If nothing, then we have no grounds upon which to critique Western emotional common sense, and much of the feminist, poststructuralist, and cultural critiques of the Western individual offered in recent decades has no meaning or purpose. If there is something that can be lost, then it can be lost everywhere, by anyone. (Reddy 2001:114)

The “emotional regime” in place at Amos was one of domination that forced the children to submit. As mentioned earlier, the Oblates and Sisters imposed normative values and emotions on the children that were enforced by churchschool rituals and practices (mass, classroom setting, rules, hygiene practices, punishment, abuse etc.). As we will explore in the next chapter, this caused emotional conflicts and suffering for the children that can be traced in their “emotives” or speech acts. To consider the concept of “emotional regime” in the context of Amos brings us beyond the sheer physicality of the control and harm associated with the institution of the Catholic residential school: it brings us to consider that the socialisation of children into the normative emotional regime in place at the school was itself a form of political oppression, which severely curtailed and interfered with their freedom (see previous chapter on remembering freedom before residential school). Yet it should not be overlooked that the emotional regime of domination in place at Amos was not only maintained by the Catholic Church: the Canadian Government was also involved. The following photograph found in Vie Indienne provides a visual illustration to this point: The group of children is framed by figures of authority: to the left and right on either front sides stand the superintendent of the Indian Agency for that area, and his wife. They are titled as the godparents; “parrain” and “marraine” of all the children. The Indian Agency is the agency in charge of all Indian affairs on the reserves in that district and of making sure the Indian Act, the 1876 racial law that governs Aboriginal Peoples in Canada, is applied. The two other adults in the back on either side are hard to identify but the one on the left looks like the school director. This picture, in its structure, represents the power system in charge of “Indians” at the time. The Aboriginal parents are not in the picture, instead, the church is prominent, and working hand-in-hand with the government. The bishop (as made visible by his dress) does not stand on

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the side as a teacher would on a traditional school picture, but rather front and centre. This is a repeated set-up in Vie Indienne pictures portraying religious rituals or hockey games90. It is however a rare instance when boys and girls, who were strictly separated at Amos, are shown together.91 Figure 13: Unnamed. Vie Indienne 1960 (Vol.2, No.7, p.7) “Archives Deschâtelets, Ottawa”

The picture gives a sense of control, order, hierarchy and obedience. The planimetric composition: vertical and horizontal lines only, give it a harsh and rigid 90 | Both younger and older boys are most often represented in connection with hockey (eleven out of nineteen pictures for the older boys and twelve out of twenty-two pictures for the younger boys) in Vie Indienne. In most of those pictures, the boys are lined-up in three or four rows. They are wearing hockey gear. Either standing on the side or sitting front row in the middle are always two adult men: a trainer and a friar/priest. The boys usually look straight ahead. 91 | In general, the boys are shown doing a greater variety of activities than the girls, who are mostly photographed together singing in a choir, cooking or sewing, never playing outside, doing sports or playing games. The male gaze (Berger 1972; Mulvey 1985) is present in the Vie Indienne photographs: Girls are portrayed as sweet and smiling, or as future housewives, nurses or teachers, and there are more pictures of boys. But there is a resemblance in the way children show little (if no) agency, regardless of gender.

Chapter 5 – Indian Residential School, Education and the Socialisation of Emotions

sense of order. In the analysis of a similarly structured GDR family picture of a First Communion celebration, Ralf Bohnsack (2009) claims essential elements of the milieu and its realm of experience are expressed in an immediate way, and validated by the pre-iconographic description in which homologous elements can be found: “harshness and rigidity are documented not only in the planimetric composition, but also in the expression in the faces, in gestures and in posture, which is characterized by a strictly vertical body axis” (2009:310). The same holds for this picture, and is rendered even stronger with the presence of uniforms. Here not only have the children been extracted from their families and homes, but they also have been disguised in uniforms and plunged into a foreign social context. From the sense of order and authority conveyed by the adults in the picture, little space is left for the children to engage with the photograph as a space for self-representation. Besides the two young girls on the bottom right row, the children seem lost and far from proud or happy to celebrate their confirmation. The ideal “Indian” child is the controlled/submitted/conforming child that follows the emotional regime in place at Amos, supervised by the church and the government.

C omparing and contr asting : values , socialising emotions and pr actices It has been argued that there is a certain degree of concordance between Catholic and Algonquin values (like generosity, social order and respect), and that this in part explains the success of Catholic conversions among the Algonquins (Bousquet 2008:63). In the light of these similar values, this chapter has provided a backdrop that can explain why (as the next chapter will show) former students mostly remember their time at the Catholic-run residential school of Amos in a very negative way. If we compare and contrast the emotionally arousing child-rearing methods applied by the Algonquins and the Oblates/Sisters respectively, it is clear that common values can be understood and inculcated very differently. Indeed, most important when it comes to child-rearing methods is also a value that the Algonquins and the Oblates/Sisters did not share, and that constitute a point of departure in their educational styles: that of non-interference. Discussed earlier, non-interference is a part of the Algonquin understanding of respect, another fundamental way in which their value perspective differed from that of the Oblates and Sisters at Amos. Non-interference is a preventive feature of physical punishment and extreme forms of shaming (as applied by the Oblates and Sisters). As we saw the Algonquins and Oblates/Sisters also seemingly made use of the same socialising emotions, albeit with a different emphasis and under-

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standing: the Oblates/Sisters primarily used fear to promote desired socialising effects, laced with shame, while the Algonquins used agadji “shame” laced with fear to promote desired socialising effects. But the way shame and fear were understood and elicited were at odds: as we saw for the Algonquins agadji is a form of shyness that also can mean embarrassment and comes closest to our conception of shame (without the negative connotation), and fear elicited through storytelling is displaced: the story provides a buffer zone of safety for a child that physical punishment or abuse do not provide. These points of departure partly explain why, despite apparently sharing certain fundamental values and making use of similar socialising emotions, Algonquin child-rearing and the emotional regime of domination in place at Amos were deeply at odds. This chapter has provided the context for understanding Mitchikanibikok Inik survivor memories and emotions explored in the next chapter. In so doing, it has shown that not only do child-rearing goals, values and emotionally arousing strategies need to be generally compared, but they also need to be contrasted within their emic systems of understanding and application. Only then does it become possible to understand why two groups who seemed to share apparent values and socialising emotions could have been so fundamentally at odds in their ways of thinking and doing when it comes to child-rearing and education.

Chapter 6 Remembering Residential School: Survivor Perspectives A lot of kids, they got abused. Sexual abuse, physical abuse. They got kill. They would send home bodies. Kids and babies. And then they say, yeah you, you pray to God and what you do if you do something, you go to hell. If you do something bad you go to hell. And they should have gone to hell the fuckers. Well then, I went home. (Sheila, “generation one” survivor, 67, July 2013, in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve)

This chapter explores survivor perspectives of their time at residential school. By looking at how survivors remember their past and the emotions salient in this process, it tries to better understand the impacts of the violence. Drawing from my data and existing data (from FNQLHSSC 2010), I first offer a sketch of what arrival and daily life were like at the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos). Mainly focusing on “generation two” memories of Amos, I then show (in a second section) that remembering the past is a place of tensions: some survivors are able to spin a positive aspect to their experience of residential school, many are not. In the light of accusations of “borrowed” memories, a third section argues that making sense of the past in the present is normal in the case of traumatic abuse and that it does not mean survivors are necessarily making up their memories. In a fourth section, I contend that on top of physical and sexual abuse, the “emotional abuse” survivors report as having experienced is traceable in terms of emotional conflicts. Exploring those helps better understand the shame and distrust survivors came home with, along with reinforced loyalty towards their families (fifth section). Indeed while it is usually argued that residential school “broke the family circle”, I argue that it reinforced loyalty that translates into a law of silence in Rapid Lake, enabling the continuation of patterns of dysfunctional and abusive behaviours. Drawing from William M. Reddy’s theory of emotional suffering, the last section shows how residential schools generated acute goal conflicts which en-

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abled what Jacques Leroux described as disorientation (2008:252), or the disintegration of social order among the Algonquins and the general behaviour derailment of sexual practices (Leroux 1995:58).

R ules , violence and fe ar : memories of arrival and daily life at

A mos

First days in a foreign context In a series of interviews that unravelled over the course of a few days when I stayed in his family home in 2006, Ogi gwan abik shared his residential school experience with me. He is one of the ten survivors (five men and five women) who participated in this study, eight of whom are from the second generation that went to Amos and two of whom are from the first generation and were sent to Ontario. At his request, Ogi gwan abik and I went to the site of the Amos school where some ruins were still standing, and he disclosed parts of his experience for the first time. He remembered how he could not wait to start school, to follow his older brother’s footsteps and go “where the big boys were”. When he arrived at Amos in 1963 for the first time, the priest asked him what his name was. He told him the Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin name his mother had given him, and the priest insisted that this was no longer his name, calling him instead by his Christian name. Ogi gwan abik remembered his five year old self insisting, and […] that’s when he beat me up, the first day I was there, I didn’t even have my uniform as I was entering that school and he beat the crap out of me. That’s when I knew I was at his mercy; my mum wasn’t there to watch over me. And he beat me like a dog. When he got me on the ground there that’s when he started kicking me (starts crying). I didn’t realise what I had done, but I was being punished. That’s when I knew I had no special privileges; I was on the receiving end. (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi)

Their arrival at the school was something all participants remember when sharing their residential school memories, even if they were not beaten-up. Having their hair cut and clothing removed was experienced as a loss of a sense of individuality, and the number they received for laundry (and all school supplies) was interpreted as an ID number. Monik, who got her residential school numbers as tattoos a few years ago, remembers: When we left for residential school it was a big party so that we wouldn’t think about leaving our parents, and the sadness. So it was a big party, everyone came. I remember the bus arriving, and everyone getting ready. And there was an old man, his name was

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives Moise, he would make us laugh, he would be silly and he would dance and we would laugh you know, until the last minute. And after we’d get on the bus it wouldn’t stop, he would make us laugh and laugh until we would be waving and the bus leaving. When I arrived at school the first year, I was six years old. I wasn’t Monik anymore. I was number eleven. I wore the number eleven, for two years. Then I was number twenty-two, and the last year, number thirty-two. I remember my numbers. Not just me, everybody does. (My translation, Monik, 45, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi)

Roy also remembers his arrival at Amos in 1966: “I spent most of my life in the bush. I was, I think I was five or six years old when they took me to school. I remember the first day. The first day I went to school, all I saw was boys crying, everybody was crying. I was wondering were I was going. I didn’t know I was stepping into another world. That’s how I felt. That’s when I started crying too (sighs)” (Roy, 50, August 2011, in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve). A feeling of vulnerability and a reinforced impression of racial inferiority set-in along with the initial bewilderment at the unexpected: It’s heavy. It’s heavy. Apparently that friar Michaud, he was the one that would break you, the welcoming committee. When you arrived in front of him you weren’t your mother’s baby anymore, you were no more than a burden to their reason for being. You were a burden on society, on the white society, and it was his job to make you adjust to the social requirements, which was inferior, inferior to the white race. (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Saint-Marc-de-Figuery)

Not accustomed to a regimented schedule or to eating at precise hours, Amos survivors describe being plunged into a foreign universe where many things were new: the language (French), living according to many new rules (for instance looking at an adult in the eyes when being spoken to, which was considered disrespectful behaviour at home) and a schedule, the food, sleeping in a bed, taking a shower or the electric light switches (my interview data 20062013; FNQLHSSC 2010).

Daily life at Amos Daily life at Amos was very structured: the days fell into a detailed timetable, which in addition to the Quebec school curriculum also included mass, catechism, workshops in plumbing, electricity, carpentry for boys and sewing for girls (Bousquet 2006:7; Ottawa 2010). Sports (especially hockey), music, theatre and free time were also part of life at Amos where between 148 children (in 1955 when it opened) and 214 children (early 1960s) were welcomed and divided by gender into three sections: the small (ages five until eight), medium (ages nine until twelve) and older children (twelve and up). The school was designed

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to welcome 200 children and housed eight dormitories (four for the boys and four for the girls), six classrooms, two recess rooms, a kitchen, a cafeteria, and a chapel (Loiselle and Roy 2007:20). There was also an outdoor skating rink and a playground outside, as well as access to a small beach on Lac Lamotte (Guertin 1960, archive film “Le pensionnat indien d’Amos à Saint-Marc de Figuery”). Figure 14: Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery Société d’histoire d’Amos, Fonds Studio Morasse/H. Dudemaine

In terms of staff, Loiselle and Roy report there is no exact information as to how many people worked there, but on average it seems that two or three Oblate priests and three to five Oblate brothers were in charge at different levels, from school direction to general surveillance and activities, as well as anywhere between five and ten Sisters of Saint-Francis of Assisi mostly in charge of teaching and of watching over the girls (Loiselle and Roy 2007:21). The school also hired two non-denominational teachers and around ten Aboriginal women as cleaning staff (Loiselle and Roy 2007:21). In her M.A. thesis, Geneviève Crytes (2013) describes the school curriculum at Amos and reports that the children received most teaching hours in French (between nine and twelve hours per week from first to seventh class) and religion (four hours per week from first to seventh class). In third place came arithmetic with three and a half to five hours per week (Crytes 2013:22-

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

23). She reports the history textbooks conveyed that “Aboriginals were not relevant, unless there were ‘allies’ or ‘enemies’ of the French-Canadians” (my translation, Crytes 2013:25). Most children did not speak any French upon their arrival at Amos and remembered being hit or punished and not understanding why. A large number of testimonies from former students document excessive physical punishments that go beyond the standard of the time and fall into abusive violence (my interview data 2006-2013; Bousquet 2006; Loiselle and Roy 2007; Rankin and Tardif 2011; FNQLHSSC 2010).

“Dirty Indians”, constant fear and feeling rules A recurrent theme throughout survivor testimonies is fear: fear of punishment, fear of having been abandoned by their parents, and fear of physical and sexual abuse. Along with fear eventually settled shame: shame of their parents and families, shame of being dirty (as they were repeatedly told they were), shame of the sexual abuse they were experiencing, and shame of being Aboriginal or “maudits sauvages” (damned savages) as many remember having been called. There have been reports of the Oblates making use of bleach at Amos to wash out the mouths of children or to whiten their skin in a bath (Leroux 1995:56; Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 5:11/72). This cultural shaming was something Ogi gwan abik also recalls, and he remembers the intense fear that surrounded the racial and physical abuses: He wanted you to witness the beatings and he’d knock you down and kick you and say get back up, get up, get up you dirty Indian. That was frère Michaud, it was his specialty, he use to break you. He wanted to know you were at his mercy. And the first thing he did was convince you, terrorise you. Because he knew you didn’t have your mother or father anymore, you were his. And he used to take pleasure in it. With his cop boots, cop shoes. He’d knock you down and get you back up by kicking you. One time he grabbed me, I was about seven years old, he grabbed me and he threw me against the lockers head first and he injured my shoulder and I was hurt and I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t cry on the floor, I had to cry standing up. […] We’d get beat up at random, sometimes we’d get two beatings a day, sometimes we’d not go two days without getting any beating, it was always constant, constant beatings. When he gave an order to get in line, he’d walk around like a shark in the water waiting for the one, the one who’s not going to pay attention and then he’d come down on them, so we were terrified, we lived in constant fear (silence). Yeah, he’d beat us with hockey sticks, there. […] I saw my brother get beat up one time, George, and there was nothing I could do, to make it stop, I just had to watch it, I just had to watch my brother get beat up like no human deserves to get beat up that way, the way they beat us up, you didn’t even do that to a dog and get away

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Ogi gwan abik mentions, “I couldn’t cry on the floor, I had to cry standing up”. As we know from the previous chapter, the Oblates and Sisters valued certain emotion norms or “feeling rules” (ways in which emotions are to be felt, by whom and when and how they should be expressed [Hochschild 1979:557]), among others and relevant here: humility about how one feels (putting ones own suffering behind that of others in a spirit of sacrifice); control of emotions (no outbursts and low arousal); and control of pain and body (as well as the emotions linked to both). For Mitchikanibikok Inik children, who came from a culture in which emotional outbursts were also not valued, the kind of emotional conditioning described above (not crying on the ground, and then eventually not crying at all) entailed emotion management: the way individuals work on inducing or inhibiting feelings so as to make them appropriate to a situation (Hochschild 1979:551). Hence they learned to manage their emotions, and sometimes to the extent of supressing them when in situations in which their sense of self was threatened. I will come back to the impacts of these residential school “feeling rules” and their associated emotional management and/or suppression later in this chapter, linking them to the suffering and the disorientation in the community today. Though they often witnessed the beatings, Ogi gwan abik claims other friars did not intervene “because they thought the children deserved it all”. He tried to run away three times but was always caught by the locals or police of nearby towns and brought back to the school. We were too afraid to get up and go pee (at night) because we’d get beat up if we were two in the toilet. We had to go by ourselves and we were scared. We were scared of everything. One time, he left me out in the hall until midnight. I peeked to see if anyone was still awake. When he saw me peek, he came out of the darkness and beat the crap out of me in the hallway. Kicking me “debout, debout”. I couldn’t cry because I would wake up the others. I just took the beatings. I could hear the other ones when they would get beat-up. All the knocks, the kicks, I can hear them.” (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Saint-Marc-de-Figuery)

Children like Ogi gwan abik developed enuresis (bed-wetting) and remember the public shaming associated to that: in the morning the children who had wet their beds were made to stand in the freezing cold dormitory with the windows wide open, while the fumes from the warm urine rose from their beds.

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

Sexual abuse For many children the state of fear described above was constant. Describing the physical and sexual abuse he experienced at Amos, Dominique Rankin (Rankin and Tardif 2011) remembers night after night wondering if his turn was next. He describes being tricked by two Oblate brothers who brought him into the laundry room in the middle of the night to sexually abuse him, and how he managed to escape the first time. But he writes that in the years that followed: “we’d be had one after the other. In my case maybe every two months” (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 5:28/72). According to Rankin there were “trois rôdeurs de la nuit”: three brothers who were in charge of the dormitories and sexually abused the boys at night (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 5:20/72). Afterwards, the boys were often given candies. Former students remembered hearing strange noises at night and not speaking to one another about it, though they sometimes hid together from the abusers under their bed (Ogi gwan abik, 52, August 2010, Kitigan Zibi). Rankin (2011) describes how older students, his fourteen year old self included, started fighting back (he got kicked out of Amos for this) and also sometimes tried to avenge the younger boys by humiliating their abusers (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 6:9/46). One participant told me that for this reason, the older boys’ dormitory was locked at night. At the same time, Rankin does make it clear that it was rare for the younger boys to speak out: “If there is one basic rule when it comes to paedophilia, it is the rule of silence. It’s well known, rape victims are constantly struggling with their fear and shame” (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 6:8/46). On top of psychological harm, the children often suffered physical lesions due to being raped. Rankin remembers the victims were recognisable because of their crying and sudden candy supplies. Some older boys also started abusing of the younger boys (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 6:10/46). There is no question that sexual abuse was rampant at Amos. Loiselle and Roy cite an article from the Journal de Montreal from March 1st 1990 that affirms that 102 children were sexually assaulted at Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (2007:24), and though there are no exact numbers today it was probably many more than that. In his book on sexual abuse in Quebec residential schools, Daniel Tremblay (2008) identifies six alleged sexual abusers who operated at Amos, and whose names I could easily guess (despite pseudonyms) once reading about their behaviour: it matches perfectly what I had heard in testimonies from my informants. For instance, one abuser was particularly fond of photography, another was also a priest on the reserve where the abuse continued, another brother was particularly violent, one brother allegedly committed suicide (during the “affaire Brouillard” trial), and albeit much later, one priest, Edmond Brouillard, was convicted to five years of prison. He was charged and convicted in 1993 for the sexual abuse of six children (between 1982 and 1991) in two dif-

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ferent Algonquin communities, where he used to give his victims cash or candy (Tremblay 2008:175-176). In the days when he was regularly at Saint-Marc-deFiguery, Brouillard had free access to the children and the role of teaching sexual education (Tremblay 2008:181). Much more could be written about the sexual abuse at Amos, but let it suffice to say that the policeman, Claude Gagnon, who was in charge of the investigation leading up to Brouillard’s arrest claimed that “clearly, there was a ring of paedophiles at Amos” (Tremblay 2008:187). That this would have gone by unnoticed by the adults in charge at the time seems questionable, given that some brothers teamed-up to abuse the children (see Rankin and Tardif 2011) and that it was not only the brothers or priests who carried out the abuses, but also some of the sisters (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 5:28-29/72). Although none of my participants recall having experienced or witnessed sexual abuse by a Sister at Amos. It seems even more surprising that the adults in charge would not have noticed abuse given that some of the older boys rebelled and publicly shamed known adult abusers to the extent of getting expelled from the school (see Rankin and Tardif 2011).

Sur vival strategies and socialising emotions Survivors (especially men) remember developing strategies as children in order to avoid physical and sexual abuse, for instance sticking close to older children, and hiding or staying absolutely still and silent as much as possible (my interview data 2006-2013; Tremblay 2008:191-193; FNQLHSSC 2010). These strategies underline the fear that was part of everyday life for the children at Amos. Drawing from the evidence provided by existing literature on Amos (Bousquet 2006, 2012; Loiselle and Roy 2007; Tremblay 2008; Ottawa 2010; FNQLHSSC 2010; Rankin and Tardif 2011; Crytes 2013), my data therefore confirms the assertion made in chapter five that fear was the main socialising emotion at Amos, laced with shame. Indeed, the previous chapter showed that the Oblates and Sisters primarily used fear laced with shame to promote desired socialising effects. It also asserted that though the Algonquins seemingly made use of the same socialising emotions, it was with a different emphasis and understanding: they used agadji “shame” laced with fear to promote desired socialising effects. Hence the way shame and fear were understood and elicited were at odds: as we saw for the Algonquins agadji is a form of shyness that also can mean embarrassment and comes closest to our conception of shame (without the negative connotation), and fear elicited through storytelling is displaced: the stories provide a buffer zone of safety for a child that physical punishment or abuse do not provide. These differences in understanding explain why, despite sharing similar values, the emotionally arousing child-rearing practices deployed by the Oblates and Sisters at Amos: the physical violence, the extreme public humiliation and

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

the sexual abuse were at odds with the child-rearing techniques the children knew from home.

O n the “good times ” at A mos and positive memories Despite overwhelming evidence of sexual abuse inflicted upon children at Amos, it must be made clear that not all members of staff were paedophiles, and that some former students – though none of my participants – even have some good memories of their years there, or are able to underline the positive sides of their experiences (for some examples see Ottawa 2010:85-95). Unlike my participants, four out of the ten testimonies of Amos survivors in FNQLHSSC 2010 report one positive element: for one man it is sports (hockey) and for the other it is what he had learned (not how he was treated). One woman recalls having had good moments with her friends, and the other one: “I found it difficult but I nonetheless adapted. I learned things. I even learned good things, for instance I can write and communicate – I received an education. I am happy that I did even though the environment in which I received that education was so negative” (Lisette in FNQLHSSC 2010:45). In a discussion paper prepared by Rupert Ross entitled “Heartsong: Exploring Emotional Suppression and Disconnection in Aboriginal Canada” (2009), he lists twelve variables that influence individual circumstances and shape some children’s comparatively positive experience. Applicable to Amos are only two: the fact that some children could go home for the summer; and that many “had a deeper grounding in traditional teachings and could better withstand the cultural assault” (2009:10). The other ten are not applicable to the experiences of my participants and would explain the unanimous negativity they report when remembering their time at Amos: many had parents who were reluctant to see them go; they all came directly from a life in the bush; though some were sent with their siblings they were strictly separated at Amos; they returned to a community that had not maintained its health; many were sent as of age six (early); most stayed many years; most struggled to find employment after residential school despite having acquired some occupational skills; the shaming effect was not reduced in residential school as only one generation went to Amos (not several); violent bullying by older students happened at Amos and the school “harboured sadists and pedophiles” (Ross 2009:10). For my informants, if there had been any “good times” at Amos it was clear that these were largely over-shadowed by traumatic experiences and prolonged suffering. The “good times” did not surface in the interviews, despite some survivors having been interviewed many times over the last ten years. For many, the only good memories were linked to leaving the school – when they were allowed to go home in the summer and sometimes at Christmas.

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Putting into perspective the visits ‘home’ as well as illustrating community suffering in the neighbouring Algonquin community of Kitcisakik, Anne-Laure Bourdaleix-Manin and Loiselle explain what two of my participants also described: “Loiselle’s report (2007) also notes a more positive perception of Amos by certain survivors who saw it as a refuge from the violence they experienced in the community. But there again, to recognise that Amos was a refuge for them triggered suffering” (my translation, 2011:275). Visits from relatives at the school are remembered as somewhat stressful as the children felt surveyed: one brother would stay throughout the visit in the parlour “and watch to see if you had said anything” (Roy, 50, August 2011, in the bush, VWR). One participant claims he was forced to change the content of the letters he wrote to his family. Some children never got visits and rarely went home. This was the case of one participant who claims his family was too poor to make the journey to visit and that he did not go home once in four years. He recalls the painful memory of mistaking a woman visiting the school for his mother; it had been so long since he had last seen his mother that he had forgotten what she looked like. Such experiences underlining Oblate control and the helplessness experienced by the children at Amos support the claim that even in cases where there was no physical and/or sexual abuse, the traumatic disconnection from families, communities, languages and cultures had far-reaching impacts on the children (Chansonneuve 2005:44). As Ross details: “the absence of overt sexual or physical abuse does not mean that no damage was done. To the contrary, the combination of imprisonment, helplessness, shaming and cumulative emotional maltreatment can be expected to inflict substantial and enduring damage, especially to the development of emotional skills” (Ross 2009:7-8).

R emembering abuse and tr auma Before continuing with the emotional conflicts the children experienced, let me briefly come back to the notion of remembering in the context of childhood abuse specific to participants in this research (see chapter one for a more general and theoretical approach to remembering and abuse). The main point I would like to address here is on constructed or borrowed memories. While it is well known that alcoholism can impair memory functions and cause chronological confusion (Parker, Birnbaum and Noble 1976; Nelson, McSpadden, Fromme and Marlatt 1986), part of the response to the IRSSA has been to accuse survivors of constructing or borrowing memories in order to receive financial compensation (see “Les effets néfastes de l’alcool sur la mémoire” in Tremblay 2008:258-271 and the “Revolt of the accused” in Niezen 2013:49-54). In an article entitled “Sexual abuse, Recovered Memory, and Ther-

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

apeutic Practice: A Feminist-Psychoanalytic Perspective” (1994) Janice Haaken describes how in consulting with parents who claim they have been falsely accused of sexual abuse92, she found that more hostility is directed towards the “powerful therapists” than toward the accusing daughters (Haaken 1994:119). Parents view the therapists as manipulative and as having planted stories in the heads of their children. An analogy here can be drawn with the Oblates’ perception of lawyers and their role in the IRSSA compensation scheme regarding the construction of memory. Though they do not claim that lawyers convince survivors of their abuse, they suggest that lawyers have influenced survivors in creating false allegations for financial reasons (Niezen 2013:50-51). They also suggest that alcohol and drugs have influenced the “borrowing” of memories: “I know very well that lots of people drank alcohol and watched films or whatever. They talked about their lives. This phenomenon, and then they end up believing that what happened to others happened to them” (Tremblay quoting Father L’Heureux 2008:261). While I do not exclude the possibility that this has happened in some cases, this argument is not applicable to my data and more specifically the testimonies from the ten survivors who participated in this study: the hours spent together and the trust built between us rule this out for me. Still, their interpretations of the past are interpretations and the interviewing of the same survivors over the years makes it possible to see the working-through of remembering and interpreting. For example, in 2006 when Ogi gwan abik disclosed memories of the sexual abuse he endured as a six or seven year old (he was in the section for the small children) he factually described the abuse without calling it something, just describing the perpetrators’ actions, and his reaction. It was four years later, in July 2010 that he told me: “I was raped, I didn’t know the words, but I was raped”. While this had been clear to me back in 2006, I had been far from knowing that he had not made the link between his experience and the word used in English to refer to it. And yet there was no word for “rape” in Algonquin when he was a child, something which made it even harder for children to communicate their experience to older generations (Rankin and Tardif 2011 chapter 5:32/72). In his 1998 study of “Generational Differences in Algonquin” carried out with the Mitchikanibikok Inik, Christian Artuso examined the external influences of English onto Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin (called borrowing or codeswitching). Some of the examples he provides of English words that 92 | She is referring here to parents members of the False Memory Syndrome (FMS) Foundation, which is a group of parents who have regrouped to defend themselves against accusations of sexual abuse by their children – accusations often based on the recovery of repressed memories in psychotherapy (Haaken 1994:115). See FMS website (last accessed September 17th 2015) for more information: http://www.fms fonline.org/

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have recently travelled into Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin (“loan words”) are quite revealing: among them is rape (ogii-rapeiyaan), force (ogii-forcei’ogoon), party (gichi-partyke), crack (gii-crackoon), and spoil (nispoiligonaan) (Artuso 1998:107). That the child-self had no words (in this case literally) to put onto inflicted abuse also reflects the confusion that adult survivors remember feeling as children: “I didn’t, now that I know what happened, I don’t really like that place. They abused me. Mentally, physically, sexually, emotionally. They ruined me. I can say that.” (Emphasis added, Roy, 50, August 2011, in the bush, VWR). Inability to make sense of sexual gestures and later interpretation of abuse seems to be a common phenomenon among male survivors of early sexual abuse (my data; Leroux 1995:58). That Roy reveals understanding his experience much later on as abusive does not mean that he is constructing or inventing his memories. It reflects the general difficulty that can be linked to working through childhood trauma, and the added difficulty here created by the late verbal conceptualisation of rape in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin. The processing of the past can also be linked to places of remembering and to individual trauma. At the site of the school, Ogi gwan abik was flooded by flashbacks of abuse “I can feel it,” he kept on repeating. Walking me to different places on the property, trying to reconstitute where buildings had once stood and what had happened to him, Ogi gwan abik became so intense at one point, reliving a memory of sexual abuse, that I felt scared and cut him short, reminding him that I was filming, that he was safe now and that his story was being recorded.

C onflicts of emotions : enactment and be tr ayal I have already established (see previous chapter) that though the Oblates and the Algonquins both used a mix of fear and shame as socialising emotions, the way they understood those (i.e. the difference between shame and agadji) and the emotionally arousing child-rearing practices they put in use clearly differed. As previously explored, the child-rearing practices at Amos were frequently physically, culturally and sexually abusive. Beyond this, survivors often speak of “emotional abuse”. This calls for a closer look at the conflicts of emotions that the children were confronted with at the school. This part will explore two major ones that came up in the testimonies and through my analysis of Vie Indienne (the Oblate newspaper introduced in the previous chapter) photographs and articles: having to enact the “Indian self”, and having the feeling of never living up to the Oblates and Sisters’ expectations.

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

Enacting Indians Figure 15: Unnamed. Vie Indienne 1963 (Vol.2, No.18, p.5) “Archives Deschâtelets, Ottawa”

This is one of several Vie Indienne photographs that portray the children during a theatrical representation at Amos (for instance see Vie Indienne 1967, Vol. 3, No.10:3). Five children aged between six and seven are in this picture. On the caption we can read: “At the Residential School of Amos, we try hard to cultivate the missionary spirit” (my translation). August Decourcy is dressed up as a bishop and standing while the other children sit on either side at his feet. He holds a large crucifix in his left hand and his right hand index is raised (perhaps in an attempt to make a blessing sign). He is visibly positioned higher, above ‘the Indians’, who are portrayed with feather headdresses. The two little ‘Indian girls’ smile at each other, the two boys do not. How did they feel about enacting Indians? They are wearing Western clothing and only the feather headdress indicates whom they are supposed to be enacting in this scene. This scene, the hierarchy and religious superiority that it insinuates, must have generated conflicts of emotions for the children. Former students remember humiliation; they remember having been called “dirty Indians” and “damned savages” along with the denigration of their “pagan beliefs” and some of their cultural practices. Yet the Oblates and Sisters had this practice of getting the children to enact: in certain situations they were allowed to be ‘good Indians’: Catholic Indians or Indians that were to be converted. August Decourcy, by being dressed-up as a converting bishop, was being asked to enforce upon ‘his own people’ what the Oblates and Sisters had enforced upon them. For children in this situation, the emotional conflict must have been profound: on the one hand the emotions linked to the allegiance to the family and the cultural and spiritual beliefs which were still there (despite the conversions), carried by the memories and the knowledge of the Algonquin language, and on the other hand the emotions of shame, guilt, and fear gener-

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ated by the belittling of the ‘Indian selves’ in situations such as the above: it is clear who is standing high, powerful and righteous, and who should bow and obey. By insinuating that not all parts of their culture were bad, for instance the regalia is fine (here it should be noted that headdress among chiefs was not widespread among the Algonquins) or speaking Algonquin to pray is fine, the emotional harm generated by the Oblates was substantial: the children were made to believe that their culture should be changed (if not in its entirety, then at least some fundamental parts of it), and that they were to submit. In this sense, the Oblates did not want to entirely remove Indian culture; they just wanted it to be shaped their way, according to their belief that the natural state of Aboriginal Peoples made them close to God (Loiselle and Roy citing Bousquet 2007:9).93 This enactment of ‘the good Indian’ is a recurrent theme in Vie Indienne pictures of parades, festivals, and theatre presentations; confused-looking (perhaps even ashamed) Aboriginal children are shown acting as “little Indians”. In most photographs the children are represented not as living their own lives but as acting them, a pretty accurate description for what was expected of them on a daily basis: to act as other than they were.

“Never good enough” The tension between the Oblate discourse of integration94 and this theatrical reshaping of the ‘good Indian’, can also be linked to the elicitation of another emotional conflict: the fact that the children were supposed to consider the Oblates and Sisters as their new parental figures, but that they felt they never succeeded in pleasing them. My analysis of the photographs in Vie Indienne (Reynaud, forthcoming) suggests that the Oblates viewed themselves as well-intentioned positive figures and beloved shepherds with “maternal and paternal instinct” (my translation, photograph caption of an Oblate holding a baby in a tikinâgan (baby carrier) Vie Indienne 1963 Vol.2, No.19:5). By taking over the education of the children, it was insinuated – when not made explicit – that the parents were so worthless that they were not to be entrusted with their own children. The children were expected 93 | This perception is reflected clearly in several Vie Indienne articles, and along these lines it can be argued that some Oblates wanted and thought they were helping Aboriginal people: they supported their rights (equality, hunting, fishing, voting) and were concerned about existing problems, including how to best save their souls. 94 | As explored in the previous chapter, integration is a recurrent theme in Vie Indienne articles: some Oblates want it slow, a 100 year plan (until 2058), some faster, some even assimilative.

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

to redirect the affection they felt for their parents toward the Oblate or the Sister who, for many, was the source of their suffering. “They were never happy with us,” one survivor told me. He recalls having craved for affection, to the extent that as a boy he even had wanted to become a priest in order to please the Oblates. In this context, abuses became synonymous of betrayal as one survivor remembers: “He would take care of the miserable children, tame them, win them over and then sexually abuse them” (my translation, Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Saint-Marc-de-Figuery). These words illustrate the establishment of a trust-based relationship that leads to a situation of sexual abuse: a betrayal that in turn leads to a loss of trust and individual trauma and/or suffering. Other participants describe similar experiences such as getting abused after hockey games by a trusted coach or gradual, insidious abuse by a “comforting” adult unfolding over time. Survivor testimonies also underline a feeling of betrayal from their parents or relatives who “let them” go to residential school (a feeling of being abandoned), and an even bigger betrayal when they tried to speak about the abuse to their parents who (often) did not believe them. While many children kept silent about the sexual abuse when they returned home in the summer or after several years, some survivors remember having tried to communicate the abuse to their parents or a relative (a grandparent). Six of the ten Amos survivors in FNQLHSSC 2010 reported having kept quiet about abuse, one explaining that she was too ashamed to speak about it. According to Jacques Leroux, an anthropologist who worked in the Algonquin community of Kitcisakik for two years, an added factor to keeping silent about sexual abuse is that for the Algonquins it is culturally inacceptable to publicly accuse someone, unless being absolutely sure of their guilt (1995:58). Yet how can a child be certain of someone’s guilt if he/she cannot attribute meaning to the abuse? And if he/she was led to believe the abuse was deserved because of his/her intrinsic guilt (stemming from the Oblates’ belief that the children were stained by original sin, see chapter five)? Adding to this, the fact that questioning is also avoided in Algonquin etiquette (see chapter three) and prevented the parents from asking much about the school, it becomes clear how much harder it would have been for the children to speak-out. Supporting this point in an article on the implications of Cree interactional etiquette on education, Regna Darnell writes: There are other ways in which the etiquette of Cree differs substantially from that of middle class white society. The role of silence is extremely important, and proper silence is considered part of any important utterance (Darnell 1971a). Silence is also used to avoid ambiguous or potentially disruptive situations. Basso (1970) had noted that Western Apache do not talk to a child who returns home from boarding school until he

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Of the four survivors who had spoken-up (in the FNQLHSSC 2010 testimonies), three remember their parents or grandparents did not believe them because it was inconceivable that priests or brothers would do such things. One says his mother believed him, but he was silenced by his grandmother who was “more Catholic than the pope himself” (Harry in FNQLHSSC 2010:37). This disbelief is not surprising if one considers the well-established influence of the Oblates at the time. In an article entitled “A question of Emotions and a Matter of Respect: Interpreting Conversion to Catholicism Among Quebec Algonquins” (2008), Bousquet argues that Oblate missionaries, who were familiar with Aboriginal value systems, appealed to peoples’ emotions as a rhetorical tool in their conversion efforts (2008:68). She mentions the missionary work of J.-N Laverlochère (O.M.I) among the Algonquins in the mid-1850’s, about which Gaston Carrière writes: “The little Indians were his joy. To form them to respect the Black Robe, he would oblige them to kneel and ask for his benediction; and when they would neglect this ceremony, he would refuse to speak to them, which was for all an unforgettable punishment” (my translation, Carrière 1963:111-112). Through writings such as these it is possible to see how missionaries established a cult of respect and power around themselves, using punishment and public shaming as a way to obtain submission from the children and the adults alike. Among my ten informants only Grace (G1 who went to two schools in Ontario) remembers speaking-up “successfully” about the abuse she experienced. This was made possible after the death of her oldest brother Joseph95: And then what happened is that after my brother got hurt on the residential school, the boys keeper beat up my brother and he got very sick, and he, he died after. And I have a witness on that, the guy is still alive that was with him. And that was because he was laughing, speaking Indian. That’s what the guy (the witness) said. And the boys keeper said “hey you boys you’re fooling around”, and they didn’t speak a word of English. And he says, the other guy named Hector (the witness), he says “he hit me once but I didn’t fall down. He hit Joseph twice. When he hit Joseph he sort of went like this and then he hit him again.” Joseph fall over, like he says he faint. And he lay there for a while. And then he picked him up. And he says he doesn’t know what happened after. They picked 95 | Bechmann-Khera also refers to this death in her fieldnotes. She claims: “the Indian agency found places for the four older children at the Indian Boarding School in Kenora, Ontario. There Joseph (note: my name change) the oldest, got cancer, and was sent home to die at the age of 14. Everybody in the village was upset about the boy’s death, blaming the school” (1962:26).

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives him up. He died after a couple of months. And what I did is I kept, my sister was old enough, and she wrote a note to my mother, and my mother came and pick-up my brother at the residential school and brought him home, and he died after, a week or two later. (Grace, 71, August 2011, in the bush, VWR)

After this, Grace claims she told her mother about the abuse she was experiencing and her mother did not send her back to residential school. She went to work with her on a mink farm instead. Roy, who attended Amos for six years, remembers having been incapable of speaking to his parents who were both G1 survivors (both had gone to Spanish Residential School) because “they said they had it worse (silence). But I don’t know what worse is” (Roy, 50, August 2011, in the bush, VWR). Some participants recall being silenced many years after having left Amos, when trying to speak about the abuse to family members (usually grandparents) who did not believe that priests would do such things. Other survivors mention that when they came back to Rapid Lake, one of the abusive priests from Amos would come and continued abusing children during his stays in the community. His very presence must have reinforced the law of silence.

C oming “ home ” af ter A mos In 1971 a school was built in Rapid Lake (Matchewan 1989:153). At the close of the residential school of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery in 1972, some Mitchikanibikok Inik children started to attend school in the reserve. Bousquet describes the reasons for the closure of Amos as similar to that of other residential schools: “transfer of Aboriginal education to provincial schools, drop in federal funding, changes to education and the public roles accorded to religious communities in Quebec that forced them to reorganise and redistribute themselves throughout parishes and congregations” (my translation, Bousquet 2012:188). Monik remembers how she found out about not having to go back to residential school: At the end of the summer we would get ready to go back to residential school. We waited, we waited for the bus to come. It never came. I asked my mother, the bus is not coming, why is the bus not coming? And my mother said “you will go to school here today, you will start school in Rapid Lake.” I couldn’t believe it. And then I woke up in the morning to go to school, and I went to school, and I came home to eat lunch, and I saw my mother. I will never forget this feeling, to go to school and to go back to my mother. I couldn’t believe it, and I could see my other small brothers too. I couldn’t believe it. And when the teacher came in the classroom, we were sitting as we always did with the Sisters there, in silence. And the teacher came in and he said: “Come on kids, move a bit! What’s happening?” And someone put up their hand and answered, “We’re not allowed to speak

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Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better here, we’re not allowed.” And the teacher said: “You’re free, shake yourselves! You’re not where you were,” he said. And after that we felt very different you know. I’ll never forget this feeling I had, to go eat lunch at my mothers’, and my mother she was very happy too, to see all her kids after school. Because we were six kids at the residential school, all her kids. Now she had all her kids my mother, and my father, everyone was there. My older brothers. But still, it wasn’t the same, it had changed. (My translation, Monik, 45, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi)

Of the participants many did not return to school in Rapid Lake: some of the older ones stopped school, others went to school in nearby towns (to the secondary level in Amos at the Ecole Saint Viateur or to school in Maniwaki) and lived in foster homes. In the above quote, the way Monik finds out that she will no longer be going to Amos reflects the indirect communication etiquette already described in chapter three. She also underlines the joy of being able to go to “her mothers’” for lunch; she does not call it “home”. Despite the joy she felt at being able to stay in the community to go to school and see her family, things were no longer the same: “it had changed”. As we will now explore in more detail, shame, distrust and dysfunction generated suffering for the children and the adults they became in their lives after Amos.

Shame and vicarious shame Participants describe two main reasons for the shame they felt after residential school: the first was linked to their identity and the second to sexual abuse. Roy remembers: “When I first went to school in Maniwaki, I was ashamed of myself. I didn’t want to tell them I was an Indian. I called myself a halfbreed. That’s how ashamed I was of myself” (Roy, 50, August 2011, in the bush, VWR). That the children would have internalised a deep sense of shame linked to the paradoxical cultural thematising (for instance through theatre) and the belittling treatments they experienced at Amos, does not seem surprising. Remembering such racism, Ogi gwan abik described: “One time, I was about eight years old, and the colour of my skin, I’m dark skinned, he had a hard brush, he made me scrub my knuckles to the flesh. I was bleeding, to take the colour off my knuckles” (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Saint-Marc-de-Figuery). When describing why they had not spoken to their parents or relatives about abuse, participants did not only refer to the fear of not being believed in, but also to the suffering of their families through the loss experienced by their parents and families, and the shame they would also feel in hearing about the sexual abuse. Marcel explains: “When I start to experience the abuse, the sexual abuse, I couldn’t, my parents couldn’t, I didn’t want to hurt them. And then I didn’t want them to be ashamed of me, I didn’t want them to feel rejected by what happened” (emphasis added, Marcel, 60, February 2014, phone interview).

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

By saying that he did not want his parents to feel rejected by what happened to him because of how ashamed they would feel, Marcel is implying that they would also experience a kind of ‘vicarious shame’. Röttger-Rössler et al. depict vicarious shame as: “when a norm violation has become public, those persons who are related to the transgressor also feel shame. This emotional reaction to the misbehavior of individuals to whom one belongs or with whom one is associated generally leads to the misbehaving persons being reprimanded and rebuffed or even avoided” (2013:269). Because of this, vicarious shame is therefore an important instrument of social control because it forces individuals to react with feelings of shame in response to other peoples’ misbehaviour and/or shame (for more on vicarious shame see Lickel, Schmader, Curtis, Scarnier and Ames 2005; Welten, Zeelenberg and Breugelmans 2012; Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013). In the case of sexual abuse, vicarious shame can reinforce the law of silence.

Distrust As was pointed out earlier, for some children the sexual abuse became synonymous of betrayal as it came from a perpetrator whom they initially trusted. Abuse that involves the betrayal of trust is more psychologically complex and damaging than is impersonal abuse, and distortions of memory often involve the child’s denial of the abuse in order to protect the perpetrator (Herman 1992; Freyd 1994). The child’s access to traumatic memory is contingent upon a “holding environment” that provides physical and psychological distance from the abuser (Freyd 1994). (Haaken 1994:121)

For survivors of sexual abuse, departure from residential school in most cases provided the necessary “physical and psychological distance from the abuser” mentioned above, but their sense of basic trust, what gave them a feeling of safety in the world (Herman 1992:51), was shattered. Though some survivors might have been more resilient than others and therefore revealed a certain capacity to deal with their trauma, the experience of childhood sexual abuse by a trusted caretaker damages a child’s sense of integrity no matter how high his/her resilience is. Judith Herman defines integrity as “the foundation upon which trust in relationships is originally formed, and upon which shattered trust may be restored. The interlocking of integrity and trust in caretaking relationships completes the cycle of generations and regenerates the sense of human community which trauma destroys” (1992:154). For some children, the betrayal of certain adults in charge at residential school was experienced as an additional betrayal to that of believing they had been abandoned by their parents or grandparents. Under the Catholic influence at school the children came to question their parents’ values and beliefs. As also mentioned earlier, the fact that they often were not believed in by their parents

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or relatives when speaking-up about abuse afterwards added another sense of betrayal. These added factors bred an atmosphere of distrust between the generations that participants claim still affects the community today: They sent my mother to residential school, in hoping to break the spirit. And when they did that, our people started to drink. They wanted to numb to pain of losing their children. And that was the first blow into breaking the spirit of our people. Then they skipped a generation. And that generation is the leadership of today, and that generation felt or feels that nothing belongs to them anymore. They convinced that generation that they have no say on land issues, on our development. They feel that our development depends on how diplomatic we are with the aggressors. So the second wave was our generation and that’s when they broke the spirit, but as a child I was subjected to the first wave, the family values were not the same anymore […]. Because they took away the kids. They took away the kids and the family values have been severed. And the pain that we inflict upon each other is nothing compared to the pain we were subjected to in residential school. Because for my experience the residential school was to break you, was to make you aware that you didn’t have no family. (Ogi gwan abik, 48, July 2006, Kitigan Zibi)

This quote reveals how distrust has seeped into the political fabric of the community, here explained as divided in terms of generational experience of having gone to residential school or not, and of the impact this has had on existing cross-cultural economic and political relationships today. As chapter nine explores, the distrust is also traceable as affecting many other aspects of community life: it was described to me as present in how people relate to education and to healthcare, as well as how they relate to one another on an interpersonal level. It is linked to fear in the sense that distrust can breed fear and vice versa. For example in an interview in 2011, Wabasheship (from the “new generations”; for an explanation of the generations see chapter three) described her fear of leaving her children alone in the community today because of paedophiles, and this as her reason for not living on reserve. She described her fear and distrust as inseparable. Importantly for this study and as the next three chapters will examine: distrust towards the government is also a part of this conjunction, influencing survivors’ experiences of the IRSSA.

Dysfunction Drawing from Donald L. Nathanson, Ross lists four primary responses to experiencing shame (the kind of shame elicited by the Sisters and Oblates and not agadji): The “withdrawal” response (hiding, staying silent, isolation); the “attack self” response (deference to others and demeaning of self); the “avoidance” response (alcohol, drugs and other forms of extreme pleasure seeking);

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

and the “attack others” response (ridicule, abuse and violence inflicted towards others to reduce their self-worth) (Ross 2009:6). In the context of the compilation of abuses described by participants, these responses to shame also fit with the clinical presentations of PTSD (DSM-V) described in chapter one: Intrusion (distressing dreams, flashbacks, psychological distress); avoidance of the stimuli associated with the traumatic event(s); marked alterations in arousal and reactivity associated with the traumatic event (aggressive or self-destructive behaviour, sleep disturbances, hyper-vigilance); and negative alterations in cognitions and mood associated with the traumatic event (self-blame, persistent negative emotional states, inability to remember the event). DSM-V also recognises that “following prolonged, repeated, and severe traumatic events (e.g., childhood abuse, torture), the individual may additionally experience difficulties in regulating emotions or maintaining stable interpersonal relationships, or dissociative symptoms” (2013:276). In this sense and despite the whole debate that surrounds the limited scope of trauma as PTSD, participants often relate to elements of the trauma concept when it comes to their personal experiences and their lives after residential school. Along with the PTSD symptoms, the related responses to shame and the effects of fear, loneliness, lack of nurturing and love (due to disconnection with family) and distrust resurface in the general dysfunction described in the literature. Indeed much has been written about the pathological dysfunction that generally ensued in the lives of survivors of residential school (among others see Ing 2000; Dion Stout and Kipling 2003; Castellano, Archibald and DeGagné 2008). For this reason, I only provide a brief summary overview of the effects recurrent across interviews with participants before looking more closely at one finding that emerged from my data: reinforced family loyalty. • Effects on physical and mental health: substance addictions (drugs and alcohol); ill health; and suicide. Effectively, “former students continued their lives in brand new communities, destructured by alcohol and endemic unemployment” (my translation, Bousquet 2012:188). My informants remember life after residential school as mired by alcoholism, drug addiction and bouts of despair: […] we slept under the bed one night, after that, there was three of us, being afraid that the priest might come again. There was Isaac and Victor, two Crees from Matagami. I know Isaac is still alive, I don’t know about Victor. Most of them died. The one that, the ones that were exposed to those abuses, almost all of them died, getting shot or suicide, just sick, sick from being, of not having confidence in themselves. Not having the self-esteem. Some of them just let go. ’Cause there was no more you know, there was like nothing worth living, like nothing is worth living anymore you know. All your dreams are broken. And some of them just gave up. That’s the ones that died. That’s the ones that didn’t survive. Now I don’t know how they’re gonna count for the ones that died. There’s no, there’s nothing for them. Like I know there’s

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this family, they were singer boys from Ontario, all four of them died. And they got a hell of a beating over there. One of them ran away and he got struck by a car. I think the three others got shot, William, Leo and James. What about their abuse? They couldn’t handle it because it was really tough on them. So a lot of people, a lot of people sort of died, unaccounted, getting drunk, drowning. (Ogi gwan abik, 52, August 2010, visiting someone in Maniwaki) Along the same lines, Bousquet reports: “The alumni also note that even if alcoholism was always present in their bands before the residential school, it became worse afterwards: all the informants state that they became heavy alcoholics and drug addicts after leaving school” (Bousquet 2006:11). Also linked to effects on mental health are emotional suppression (the inability to feel and/or express and regulate emotions, see Ross 2009); disconnection (loss of basic trust and capacity of attachment to others, see Herman 1992); and co-dependency. Co-dependency is linked to drugs and alcohol and feeds into the previously underlined atmosphere of distrust. Michel Tousignant defines it as an additional outcome of traumatisation, well known in the field of alcohol and substance abuse and that “can be described as a strong need to relate to other people, to form intense and superficial relationships, but paralyzed by a fear and incapacity to develop trust and genuine intimacies” (Tousignant 2009:45). Effects on communication and interpersonal skills: partial loss of native language skills (in the case of the Mitchikanibikok Inik, other groups experienced a full loss); and impacts of mental health issues onto interpersonal relationships: inability to create intimacy, inability to develop trust, violent conjugal relationships that often failed, conflicts among individuals (including exploitation of the elderly or so called “elder abuse”. For example I was told that elders who have no cars in Rapid Lake could be charged a service surplus of $300 CAD for their groceries), conflicts among families and conflicts among community factions. Effects on parenting skills: alienation from own children due to an incapacity to express, show and/or regulate emotions; violence; abuse; general lack of parenting skills (negligence, rigidity, abandonment, etc.). Monik described: My daughter asked me not long ago, a month ago, she said: “Mum, how come you never hugged me, why did you never tell me that you love me?” I said to her, to my daughter: “you know it was the residential school that caused this. I never had that when I was young. I was six when I went away and I came back when I was eleven. I didn’t have that love, that affection from my mother. And that’s why.” She told me: “I understand now why you never told me you love me”. I did that to my kids. Me. I never told them that I loved them. I never squeezed them in my arms. (My translation, Monik, 45, July 2006, at a lake near Maniwaki) Effects on next generations: omnipresent in the literature is the reference to the intergenerational effects of residential schools. Those are understood

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

as the effects of physical and sexual abuse experienced in the schools and that were transmitted to children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of survivors (Bourdaleix-Manin and Loiselle 2011:274). In other words, the unresolved trauma of adults who have not been able to unlearn what they experienced as “normal” when they were children, but that in fact constitutes abusive behaviour (for more see AHF 1999; and Ross 2009). This enables the continuation of physical and sexual abuse in the present, a cycle of abuse and trauma from one generation to the next, along with psychological and emotional violence (Bourdaleix-Manin and Loiselle 2011:274). The next generation is made vulnerable in the face of this normalised dysfunction, and these children in turn experience their own trauma. Amy, daughter of a survivor and single mother of five children who were all removed from her and placed in foster care, shared with me: Growing up I did not understand what it’s like to prepare myself to become a parent. I did not understand what would happen to me if I drank, I did not know the consequences of my actions. Growing up as a youth and all of that, I was not prepared for a lot of things. So I went through life enduring so much hardships. And also I noticed a lot of our men also didn’t have these teachings. So the kind of life I had was very violent. I had violent relationships. I was very dispirited at one time, at one time in my life. I couldn’t take care of myself, I didn’t know who I was, I didn’t know what I wanted to do in life, I just felt so hopeless, like I couldn’t move. My life was just like a zombie, you can’t think, you can’t walk with life as it goes you know. […] I want to be able to have the elders that went to residential school open up some day. But right now it’s not really the time yet, I haven’t really fully heard what went on in there but I have heard through the Legacy of Hope you know, going through that website, what it’s all about, what they went through that there’s so much more deeper wounds but you don’t want to go and open these old wounds, and make them bleed again. You know, and try to understand that at least, well that abuse, all that sexual thing happened, yes we know, it came back to our communities what happened to them there. That’s brought back into our communities and it happened all over again. Like with our generation and all that. And then now to protect the youth is just such a big thing that every woman must do. Every woman that has become an adult now is to protect them, because it’s not the role of these young kids to be babysitting these little kids while the mother is off drinking or while the parents are gone you know like, that’s another thing I grew up with, babysitting a lot. Doing things a lot that was not suppose to be me doing it all. (Amy, 34, August 2011, in the bush, VWR) Once the kind of passed-on dysfunction described above by Amy has installed itself somewhere, it produces a culture of abuse that can be found in any human group. For example, see the work by Glynis George on sexual abuse as a way of life; “a part of our culture” (1996:45) in the francophone Canadian community of White Brook in Western Newfoundland.

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• Effects on capacities: The majority of survivors struggled (and some still struggle) to find a place and a purpose after residential school. Many experienced blockages with regards to further education and as Bousquet explains: “Integration into the dominant society turned out to be a myth. The alumni experienced great difficulty in finding jobs because they were not properly trained, because they had addiction problems, and because they were subject to racism” (2006:11).

Resilience In the face of all this dysfunction, “despite sustained assaults on the physical, emotional and spiritual health of so many Aboriginal people, the majority are NOT in jail, nor are their lives swamped by addictions, violence and despair” (Ross 2009:16). This important point made by Ross and by an increasing amount of others in the literature (Ing 2000; Tousignant 2009) is relevant because in the case of participants here, it links to their refusal to be cast as victims. Though almost all describe personal lives that have been impacted by addictions, violence and despair, they also describe their capacity to endure thanks to their connection to the bush, to the language and the traditional knowledge (see chapter nine).

Reinforced loyalty A widespread claim in the literature exploring residential schools and their impacts is that it “broke the family circle” and “weakened family ties” (Roberts 2006:119). To a certain extent, this claim holds its ground when the experiences of residential school survivors are viewed solely through the lens of individual trauma and PTSD: individual trauma tends to isolate people. However, as chapter three put forward, the Mitchikanibikok Inik have a strong collective identity, which is partly shaped by the collective suffering (or “historical trauma”) the community went through. The community and its members are therefore left with a tension because if individual trauma tends to isolate, collective trauma reinforces solidarity between people (Cyrulnik 2012:189). This tension provides a basis for making sense of the reinforced family loyalty, rather than the weakening or breaking of loyalty and ties, that emerges from my data. I argue that residential school created ruptures in child-rearing practices along with the dysfunction described above, but that it did not “break the family circle” for the Mitchikanibikok Inik: to an another extreme it reinforced a loyalty to the family which ties in to dysfunctional behaviours by keeping the silence at all costs. This loyalty coupled with dysfunctional behaviours is a result of both individual and collective trauma.

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

The reinforced loyalty does not mean that there are no breaches between the generations, but that a kind of loyalty clearly defines who “belongs” to whom in the community, especially in times of conflict. It is exemplified in terms of geographical boundaries and who lives on or off reserve. As explained in more detail in the next section, Leroux (1995) argues that the symbolic order that was present among the Algonquins guaranteed a kind of safety from violent and abusive behaviour through (among other things) marriage between the bands. He claims that communities progressively folded onto themselves weakening these alliances and enabling the emergence of violence, locking people into silence, indifference and resignation. For him the “règle du silence” (law of silence) is perpetuated because of indifference and tight loyalties “as if the safekeeping of the aggressor’s social network should come before the suffering of the victim” (Leroux 1995:60). Recurrent among interviews with community members and non-members (who are somehow affiliated to community members) was the fact that there is a belief system of silence surrounding sexual and physical abuse: Why is this belief system so ingrained in people? Why is the belief system that: “well it’s not appropriate to talk about my abuse, it’s not appropriate to talk about my suffering. I am an Indian and I am strong and I am courageous and I just deal with it and move on.” Why is that belief system so strong? That is what we’re looking at, what I’m looking at. […] The majority of our participants in the bush camps are children of residential school survivors. There is a division there. There is a division of loyalties. Between proclaiming that “yes I didn’t have good parenting”, “yes I had an absent parent, and no my parent didn’t teach me anything” and the loyalty to that parent. Or the idea of a parent. Just the idea. Whether that parent was abusive or not, was absent or not, was irrelevant to the participants. Their main division of loyalty was “it is my parent, and I will be loyal to that person”. And that again comes from a belief system. It’s not a traditional thing, it’s a belief system. (Ishkote Ikwe (firewoman), 60, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

Lea, a Québécois woman in a relationship with an off reserve community member, explained to me: “It’s not everyone who can evolve this way, who can digest things. I find him exceptional, my chum (boyfriend). From what I can see, many don’t want to, because you have to change everything after. That’s what he did, and it’s very hard for him because he has to be against the ambient dynamic to be able to change. So he has to be very strong. Very strong.” I then asked what she meant by “ambient dynamic” and she responded: Everything. Not ever talking, about anything. Everything happens hidden. And nothing is spoken about. “We don’t want to hurt each other, we don’t want to,” um, lots of alcohol, and we forget. And commit actions. I think it’s directly linked. It seems many people commit reprehensible actions but they will never be reprehended. It’s as if their acts

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Reinforced loyalty to the family (first) and to community “insiders” (second) is here above described as enabling dysfunctional behaviours by maintaining the silence, and as additionally due to a lack of external intervention when it comes to dealing with reprehensible actions.

E motional suffering and disorientation Reddy defines emotional suffering as “an acute form of goal conflict, especially that brought on by emotional thought activations. Political torture and unrequited love (both in the Western context) are examples of emotional suffering” (2001:129). He further claims that emotional regimes induce goal conflicts through their sanctioning of deviance under the form of punishment, torture, exclusion, or imprisonment (2001:129). As the last chapter shows, Amos imposed its own emotional regime based on the Oblates’ (and the Government’s) domination and control of Aboriginal children and their parents. By having to submit, the children faced goal conflicts that this chapter traced in terms of emotional conflicts: they had to act as other than they were, and they had to try to please those hurting them (and comply with the expected “feeling rules”). Coupled with physical and sexual abuse, the effects these emotional conflicts had, such as shame, distrust, dysfunction and reinforced family loyalty are therefore direct results of this emotional suffering. Leroux uses the term disorientation (2008:252) to describe the disintegration of social order among the Algonquins and the general behaviour derailment of sexual practices (1995:58): “Disorientation of the father who enforces incest on his daughter, disorientation of the mother who knows and keeps quiet, disorientation of the son who will reproduce his father’s behaviour, and disorientation of the daughter who experiences them [cf. Leroux, 1995]” (my translation, Leroux 2008:252). He argues that it is especially due to the missionaries efforts to eradicate shamanic beliefs and practices that the Algonquin social order imploded into a general disorientation (2008:253). According to him shamanic beliefs and practices were the basis of the symbolic system, which guided adult behaviours and functions (including the paternal function). While the missionaries attempted to eradicate Algonquin shamanic belief and practices, Leroux argues that their religious morals never quite managed to entirely replace the Algonquin ones: “the Algonquins eradicated the signifiers of a cultur-

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives

al belonging from which they could not psychologically separate themselves. This resulted in a kind of psychological and social limp” (my translation, Leroux 2008:254). He views residential school (and the removal of parental roles) as an aggravating factor96 that was added to structural violence (at its core: the eradication of shamanism) and its cumulative effects (Leroux 2008:254). Leroux’s approach to understanding ongoing sexual abuse and violence in Algonquin communities through the concept of disorientation is commendable and thought provoking, but he fails to explain where patterns of sexual abuse originate: he does not make the explicit link with sexual abuse and violence (or betrayal and distrust) in residential school. I argue that the betrayal and breaches of trust that started there provide the missing link in Leroux’s study: structural violence and “historical trauma” are key, but there is no doubt that the individual trauma from sexual and physical abuse in residential school also has concrete intergenerational effects. Along with the list of dysfunctional effects just described in the previous section, it has affected the transmission of the composite self ‘identity model’ (see chapter four) to the “new generations” while encouraging a culture of abuse. Though abuse is a subject researchers have stayed away from, there is mention of physical abuse (Merveille 1987) and sexual abuse (Kooiman et al. 2012; Lévesque 2013; Pasternak 2013) in Rapid Lake. If Pasternak mentions the 1995 allegations of sexual abuse mostly to dismiss the issue as part of a political smear campaign meant to discredit the community97, Lévesque’s research mentions that binge drinking, meant to dull psychological suffering 96 | Another aggravating factor he mentions is the flow of easy money into the communities since the 1950-60’s, and the resulting binge drinking bi-monthly “carnivals” (Leroux 1995:55). 97 | At the time, The Ottawa Citizen reported that in February 1995 a complaint was made to the Commission for the Protection of the Rights of Children. The complaint listed about sixty children and twenty adults in link to allegations of sexual, physical and substance abuse in Rapid Lake. An investigation carried out by social workers was opened by Youth Protection and twenty children were removed from the list. According to Luc Cadieux, the assistant director general of Youth Protection for the Outaouais region at the time, about half of the allegations seemed to involve sexual abuse. Though Youth Protection claimed they directly addressed the needs of six children requiring urgent help, the final report released in December 1995 never made public how many cases of sexual abuse had been confirmed. The report was also clearly in support of the community using a “holistic, circle-healing” approach to address the abuse, in place of “a non-native justice system that focuses on crime and punishment”. As of December 1995, only one person had been charged and Valdie Seymour, the aboriginal social-work consultant from Manitoba who had written the report, was to return to Rapid Lake to begin to implement his holistic circle-healing plan (Buchanan, The Ottawa Citizen, May 5 th 1995; Shahin, The Ottawa Citizen, December 19 th 1995).

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linked to physical and sexual violence, is a reality she observed throughout the five years she worked in the community health sector (Lévesque 2013:85-86). While I cannot provide exact numbers in support of the claim that sexual and physical abuse are an issue in the community, my data largely supports it. Both on and off reserve participants, including those working in the health sector, flagged sexual and physical abuse as an ongoing issue (linked also to substance abuse). Reddy’s concept of emotional suffering ties in well to Leroux’s claim of disorientation when this link is made because, as examples from interview excerpts below will illustrate, it enables an approach that fleshes out agency amidst disorientation. Indeed Reddy insists on the importance of understanding emotional suffering side by side with the concept of emotional liberty: “The freedom to change goals in response to bewildering, ambivalent thought activations that exceed the capacity of attention and challenge the reign of high-level goals currently guiding emotional management. This is freedom, not to make rational choices, but to undergo or derail conversion experiences and life-course changes involving numerous contrasting incommensurable factors” (2001:129). This leaves space for initiative, for counter “ambient dynamic” behaviour like Lea’s boyfriend, and for healing agency within a disoriented and emotionally suffering community. When understanding emotional suffering within a framework of emotional liberty, there is space for oppression and for the liberty to be oppressed, or not. It is here especially relevant with regards to two main points: 1. In terms of the intergenerational sexual abuse and how it connects to individual and collective agency, as one participant (from the “new generations”) underlines: I’m a victim of abuse, sexual abuse. As a young child. And I was always angered by that. It’s a vicious cycle that we have to break. That... becomes normalised. People forget about you know, I guess it depends what state of mind you’re into. There’s lots of conflicting things back then, now I’m able to, not justify but I made my own process outside of the law. I did it on my own. I confronted this man for doing that to me and I said “you know, I just wanted to tell you something: I didn’t forget what happened to me as a young kid growing up, but I want you to know that I’m still aware of what has happened, and I know that you’ll never hurt me again and you’ll never hurt anybody again, and I just want you to know that.” So I did that process, and just doing that, everything just lifted. […] There’s abuse going on here, but it’s just hidden. It’s well covered now. People know how to hide those things now. An abuser will inflict where nobody will see or nobody will know. So an abuser will inflict psychological stuff on their partner, sexual abuse. So all those abused, maybe not all of it is there, maybe all of it is there but there’s different behaviours that pop out that you will see. And it could be well hidden. And we need to break that cycle. And how to break that cycle is we need to have good, honest, sacred, direct confronta-

Chapter 6 – Remembering Residential School: Sur vivor Perspectives tion. Maybe not confrontation but care-fronting. And say “listen this has to stop”. We need to break that what’s going on. We need to create a better tomorrow for our children. […] And so it changes. And I get the chills and thrills when I talk about the young people. So we need to go there. We need to... as a kid growing up, I never use to recognise this division, this (community) conflict. But it was there. We just didn’t see it because we were just growing up, we were young. But as the alcohol started to increase, the drugs, that’s when it started to, everybody was just coping. And social problems created. So there’s lots of areas where you can point the blame, but I think we have to be a part of that too. (Emphasis added, Jack, 42, July 2013, Rapid Lake) 2. In terms of maintaining stereotypes that freeze people in an ideal without contextualisation, for instance when it comes to child-rearing practices: it is important to take into account how they have changed and that some of it is dysfunctional. In this sense, I argue that statements like this need to be considered carefully: “Colonizers mistakenly interpreted (and continue to interpret) Nishnaabeg parenting philosophies as ‘a lack of parenting’ because of the absence of punishment, coercion, manipulation, criticism, authoritarian power, and hierarchy” (Simpson 2011:123). How does this really apply to contemporary “parenting philosophies” in Rapid Lake? The reality today for many parents in Rapid Lake, as participants shared in their interviews, is that many feel at a loss when it comes to their children. How can they feel a sense of integrity and seek support if discourses like this portray them (once again) as other then who they are? While explaining to me her support work for young couples in the community, Wabasheship (daughter of two survivors) told me how she use to drink and how it was hard for her two children. She said: I quit my drinks and alcohol for my kids. I love my kids, my kids were always “Mom don’t drink no more” and I said “well you better listen to me, ’cause if you don’t listen to me and I get mad I’m gonna open my Budweiser”. Today I don’t open nothing, they don’t say anything, they leave me alone, they listen when I tell them to pick up their cloths, put ’em in the washer, you know. So I’m a loving mother. (Wabasheship, 45, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic) If she found this way of “getting her children to listen” to her and can relate to it proudly despite the blackmail involved in her technique, it is because it is the other way around for many others: They had a school in Amos and all the kids left. And from then on, when the kids were gone, the parents didn’t have no parenting eh, because there was no kids around to parent. They forgot how and they started to drink and having more babies. Then leave their kids. And today, the kids are the boss today. They drink, they do drugs. They do everything they can. Even little kids they’re abusing one another. Because the parents forgot how to be parents. To discipline their kids, before all these residential school things happened, they were able to discipline their kids; teach their

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Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better kids how to survive out in the bush. Today they don’t see that. You see kids today they don’t know how to survive. Pick up anything, to work. […] Today the kids are the parents and the parents are the kids. Because the kids are giving orders to their parents to do this, give me this. If they don’t do that, they throw themselves on the ground, on the floor, and they kick and scream bloody murder. And if you do that, oh, I’m going to tell the social worker you’re abusing me. And the first thing you know a social worker is involved and the cops are there. The kids, this is what’s been taught to them. (Emphasis added, Sheila (G1 survivor), 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR)

This chapter has shown how emotional suffering became epidemic in Rapid Lake because of the new emotional rules, the abuse and emotional conflicts the children faced in Amos. Fear, shame (not agadji), and distrust fuelled by betrayal and control have all contributed to the dysfunction, the reinforced family loyalty and the disorientation in the community. Reinforced family loyalty strengthens the “law of silence” in relation to the issue of sexual abuse today. It is therefore important to consider the disorientation within a framework of emotional liberty that leaves space for individual and collective agency. Distrust of outsiders due to individual abuse in residential school, and to traumatic collective experiences (such as the traditionalist sect ‘betrayal’ explained in chapter two, along with the more pernicious effects of local settler policies and encroachment) reveal how the framework of resistance described in chapter four is context dependant and cannot be generalised to all Algonquin communities. The implications of this framework of resistance and distrust on the IRSSA is explored in the next three chapters dealing with emotions, settlement and “feeling better”.

Chapter 7 “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

When she died in December 2007, Mi’kmaq activist Nora Bernard had recently received part of her IRSSA financial compensation. A survivor from Shubenacadie Indian Residential School, she was one of the key instigators behind the first class action suit that set a precedent for many more class action suits across the country and that eventually led to the IRSSA. Bernard was attacked and killed by her grandson after refusing to give him more money for drugs. A few days later, he was charged with first-degree murder and got a fifteen-year prison sentence for killing his grandmother in a crack-fuelled rage (AMMSA “Footprints” biography; CBC news January 23rd 2009). The tragedy behind Bernard’s death is deeply disturbing and calls for a greater scrutiny of the impacts generated by the settlement measures at local levels. As argued by Wilson, ordinary peoples’ lives are greatly affected by national reconciliation projects and yet the unintended social consequences those create are often ignored by policy makers and theorists alike (2003:384). Drawing from fieldwork with Mitchikanibikok Inik community members this chapter therefore examines the IRSSA financial compensation measures, how they were experienced and what impacts they had on individuals, their families and the community. In so doing, it explores and complicates a claim made by Regan that “ethical reconciliation” requires more than an apology: monetary and cultural reparations are also necessary (2010:58). Effectively, my data underlines the ambivalent place held by financial compensations, both as a necessary measure (as claimed by Regan) and as an inevitable shortfall. Drawing from the work of Brandon Hamber in post-apartheid South Africa (2009), I argue the scope of the “shortfall” is relative to the symbolic understanding the money takes on, and that this requires an emotional shift that cannot be separated from the work of emotions linked from uncovering truth, doing justice and acknowledging past wrongs. Building on an existing body of international research, this chapter first fleshes out the theoretical difference between reparations and restoration, and explores the ambivalent role of financial compensation through the examples of Australia’s Stolen Generations and of post-apartheid South Africa. Despite

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the differences in social-cultural contexts, these examples provide empirical bedrock for understanding how, as can be extended to the case of the IRSSA, financial compensation could be both necessary and never ‘good enough’. The second section of this chapter underlines that if money is automatically understood for its economic value, it is not necessarily understood for its intended (positive and constructive) symbolic value in compensatory processes. I hypothesise that the “mundane” implementation aspects of financial compensations have a key role to play in this respect. The third and fourth sections of this chapter then move on to empirical data with an exploration of Mitchikanibikok Inik experiences and perspectives on the two direct financial compensation measures provided by the IRSSA: the Common Experience Payment (CEP) for the loss of culture and language stemming from the separation of children from their families and communities; and the Independent Assessment Process (IAP) for specific cases of physical and sexual abuses that took place in the schools98. A fifth section links this data to the findings on distrust and agency put forward in previous chapters while providing new elements (through the issues of foster care and deforestation) to the wider context, key to understanding the symbolic meaning the financial compensation took on for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. A last section summarises and analyses the empirical results and their implications on “ethical reconciliation” as understood by Regan.99 Thirty-five recorded interviews (along with many more informal conversations) with twenty-two Mitchikanibikok Inik interviewees give shape to this chapter, a dozen people having been interviewed more than once over the last ten years (2003-2013). The aim is to provide as thick a description as possible of how financial payments were experienced within a specific context, and their role as a step, or not, towards the IRSSA’s reconciliatory goal.

98 | Though I do not include them here for timing reasons, note that “Personal Credits” of up to $3,000 CAD were later also made available to survivors towards personal or group education or/and cultural purposes. The application deadline was March 9 th 2015. This IRSSA money came from a trust of surplus CEP money and had to be spent by recipients before August 31 st 2015. 99 | Note that the data and some of the discussion put forward in this chapter will be published in 2017 as part of an article titled “Financial Compensations and Reconciliation in an Algonquin Community in Quebec” in the book The Spiritual Burn Victims edited by Marie-Pierre Bousquet and Karl S. Hele (eds.), Montreal: Recherches Amérindiennes au Québec.

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

The ambivalent role of financial compensation Reparations versus restoration Wiedergutmachung literally means “to make good again”. This was the German term for post-World War II reparations, which set a precedent for compensating individual victims that forever changed the concept of reparations in post-war and transitional political situations (Teitel 2000:123). Yet the Hebrew term shilumim, used in reference to the same reparations but by the victims, means “to make amends, to bring about peace”. It does not suggest the possibility of returning to a status quo ante, nor that anything can be made “good” again by reparations. As Ruti G. Teitel points out, financial compensations for the victims of WWII were a matter of economic necessity. In contrast, “with the failure of denazification, reparations drew political support in Germany as a way to regain credibility in the eyes of the international community” (Teitel 2000:123). Following Teitel, it becomes clear how for WWII victims and perpetrators the financial compensations were “about settling accounts, but for each in a different way.” She claims this reflects the multiple purposes and interests at stake in post-war transitional reparatory schemes (2000:124). In her account Teitel tends to conflate the terms reparations and financial compensation, often referring to the one or the other interchangeably. Though this conflation is common practice, scholars do usually distinguish reparations meant as financial compensation, from reparation meant as a multiplicity of activities (Torpey 2006:45). For the sake of clarity, I use the term financial compensations in reference to the two IRSSA monetary measures. This also serves as a better reminder that the IRSSA is a product of litigation, a settlement, and that despite adopting the same form of reparation measures as post-war transitional regimes have, Canada is not in a state of political regime transition. Teitel’s discussion on Wiedergutmachung versus shilumim points to an important distinction that should be made between financial compensation and restitution. “In cases of restitution, what was wrongly taken away is (in a fairly literal sense) given back.” (Govier 2006:179) Yet, as the definition of shilumim makes clear, some things – such as a happy childhood or the life of a sibling – cannot ever be restored or given back. Left with the possibilities of symbolic, rehabilitative and compensatory forms of redress as Govier points out, we are also left with the obvious fact that no amount of money can make up for devastating losses (Govier 2006:180). Therefore it seems improbable that victims could ever be fully satisfied by financial compensation. At the same time, and as we will now see in the next point, scholars have shown how highly problematic it can be to exclude financial compensation from restorative processes: in such cases it often become a focal point for contestation on behalf of victims.

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Australia’s “Stolen Generations”: the fight for financial compensation For instance in Australia, where Aboriginal Peoples were subjected to similar assimilation policies as in Canada (see chapter one), financial compensation was recommended by the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission in 1997. Yet, despite the Commission’s voluminous Bringing them home report that embedded the recommendations in a thorough investigation of the forceful removals of Aboriginal children from their families (a common practice until the 1970s) and their disastrous consequences, the Government of Australia (at the time under Prime Minister John Howard) decided not to deliver individual financial compensation to those commonly called the Stolen Generations.100 Instead, it allocated $63 million AUD to what it called “practical reconciliation” meant to improve Aboriginal Peoples living, health and education standards. The money was put towards counselling and the creation of oral history records, but it was totally inadequate to meet the need (Bond 2008:268). Moreover, the government steadfastly ignored many of the report’s recommendations and refused to apologise, reinforcing its lack of credibility in the so-called reconciliation process, and thereby likely encouraging an increase in social mobilisation at the grassroots level (for more on the report and the responses it generated, see among others: Barkan 2000; Povinelli 2002; Corntassel and Holder 2008; Bond 2008 and Cassidy 2009). In her book Unsettling the Settler Within: Indian Residential Schools, Truth Telling, and Reconciliation in Canada (2010), Regan claims the lack of individual financial compensation to the Stolen Generations in Australia, along with the absence of substantive socio-economic and political change in Australian society, or an official state apology, rendered grassroots and other reconciliation efforts “token at best” (2010:59). Regan argues that despite the wide grassroots movement101 and the apology eventually delivered in 2008 by then Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, the lack of financial compensation remains a central issue for Aboriginal Peoples in Australia, and constitutes a major difference with Canada’s approach to national reconciliation via the IRSSA. She claims “ethical 100 | Note the exception of the state of Tasmania then under Premier Paul Lennon, which released a $5 million AUD funding package as part of reconciliation efforts in October 2006 (towards the end of Prime Minister John Howard’s Mandate), making Tasmania the first (and only) state to compensate members of the Stolen Generations (Lennon 2008). 101 | Including for example the creation of the Australian National Sorry Day every May 26 th and the 1998 Sorry Book Campaign that had over 1000 books (signed by more than half a million people) in wide circulation in which people could write and apologise to survivors of the Stolen Generations (for more on this see Bond 2008).

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

reconciliation” requires more than an apology: it has to “be spoken in conjunction with monetary and cultural reparations that support Indigenous self-determination along with a demythification of settler-history – a questioning of the moral foundation of settler societies” (2010:58). Regan therefore makes a causal link between the monetary reparations and the work of the TRC, which is partly mandated to bring Canadians to question their perspective of “settler-history”. We will come back to this important point in the analysis (see last section).

Post-apartheid South Africa’s financial compensations: too little too late The case of post-apartheid South Africa also illustrates how financial compensation becomes a central focus of discord when it is excluded or delayed from restorative justice processes. In his analysis on the implementation of financial compensations in South Africa, Hamber concludes that South Africa offers a good example of how not to produce a conducive reparations context (2009:115). James L. Gibson describes that from very early on in the process most people expected that the post-apartheid government would pay monetary reparations. Hence, even when the government finally paid, two and a half years later, the “Urgent Interim Reparations” recommended by the South African TRC (1995-1998), there was already mounting dissatisfaction and by 2001 criticism of the government for failure to provide more complete compensations “became increasingly widespread and even virulent” (Gibson 2004:262). These “Urgent Interim Reparations”, which ranged between R2,000 and R6,000 (from about $200 CAD to $600 CAD102) were allocated to 16,885 individuals and were “intended to be complementary to a longer-term individual financial grant scheme proposed by the TRC” (Hamber 2009:103). The TRC recommended a six-year pension scheme that the government rejected, opting instead for a once-off final payment. In 2003, this final financial compensation of about R30,000 ($3100 CAD) was made to some 19,050 victims identified by the TRC (see Colvin 2006 for more details on the whole process), that is: five years after the work of the TRC was over. The delays and small sums generated feelings of betrayal for victims (Doxtader and Villa-Vicencio 2004) who felt that perpetrators were being accommodated before them, as well as disappointment, frustration and anger (Hamber 2009:104). In the light of these emotions elicited by the financial compensation delays and implementation disparities, victim groups such as the well-known Khulumani group comprising over 20,000 active members have taken on advocacy roles, even becoming a plaintiff in one of the reparations lawsuits. De102 | Exchange rate on April 28 th 2014 for these figures and all hereafter.

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spite the 2003 lump-sum payments, in 2008 Khulumani support group members “picketed parliament demanding community reparations, greater levels of consultation, and that the government withdraw its affidavit from US Court with regards to the ‘apartheid reparations’ case” (Hamber 2009:105). A recent letter addressed to parliament and featured on the Khulumani website103, demands on behalf of victims “reparation, rehabilitation, and redress to the damage done to our lives, in our apartheid past, and through the subsequent failure of our elected government to provide restitution and justice” (Khulumani, March 27th 2014). It is testimony of how victims are still far from satisfied with the so-called reconciliation process, and how the timing and process of financial compensations are key to understanding their emotions of “unresolved pain and anger” as described by Cahal McLaughlin in a visit to a Khulumani victim group session (2002:84).

F inancial compensation is both necessary and ne ver “ good enough ” The South African case also exemplifies that, though financial compensation is essential for survivors, once they do obtain financial compensation the likelihood is high that they will not find it ‘good enough’. In the conclusion to his analysis on the South African financial compensations, Hamber argues that “acts and objects need to embody an appropriate mix of individual, political and social symbolism. This process needs to be seen as dynamic and developmental. It is only when reparations are treated with this level of sensitivity that they can ever be ‘good enough’” (Hamber 2009:115). Hence if money cannot fully and adequately compensate suffering, the symbolic and emotional meaning it takes on needs to be considered for its role in socalled processes of reconciliation. Examples from dissatisfied victims (or their descendants) in the face of financial compensation after past atrocity are not limited to the case of South Africa. Among others, studies of the Madres of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina (mothers of the disappeared) or of Japanese-American and Japanese-Canadian survivors of WWII internment camps have also shown that money given to individuals can be experienced as a betrayal and/ or as an insult (for Argentina see Suarez-Orozco 1991; for Japanese-Americans see Nagata and Takeshita 2002 and for Japanese Canadians as well as other redress movements in Canada see Henderson and Wakeham 2013). This points to financial compensations as holding an ambivalent place in restorative justice

103 | See the Khulumani website last accessed May 1 st 2014: http://www.khulumani. net/

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

processes: they are both a necessary measure (Zehr 1990; Regan 2010) as well as an inevitable shortfall (Minow 1998; Hamber and Wilson 2002). Money is automatically understood for its economic value, but not necessarily for its intended symbolic value. The process of value transfer from the economic realm to a symbolic one seems therefore crucial, and this is where money presents itself under its pivotal angle: the symbolic meaning it takes on can either work towards or against some form of recovery in the spirit of “healing and reconciliation”. The next section explores the intricacies of this symbolic dimension more in depth.

F inancial compensation , emotions and symbolic value The symbolic dimension essentially raises the question of meaning in relation to money, and typically “concerns the seriousness of an apology for, or recognition of, previous wrongdoing” (Torpey 2006:57). In the case of financial compensation to Japanese-Canadian victims of WWII racist policies in Canada104, Torpey claims that “whereas “it’s not about the money,” money may be crucial for any successful attempt to come to terms with the past because it demonstrates the perpetrator’s seriousness in assuming a responsibility to repair past damage – a commitment, that is, that goes beyond mere words” (Torpey 2006:94). Money can provide a form of acknowledgment to wrongs (that have been admitted in an apology for instance), and: “acknowledgment, in turn, is significant in relationships because of its connection with relationships and trust. Acknowledgment, needed for trust and confidence in functional relationships, involves beliefs and attitudes that crucially affect relationships between previously opposed groups and individuals” (Govier 2006:15). Thus a causal link between money, emotions and reconciliation becomes clear: if the work of reconciliation is about the building or rebuilding of trust in relationships, whether at the interpersonal, community and national intergroup-levels (Govier and Verwoerd 2002:186), financial reparations can be an element that provide a symbolic “balance” generating positive emotions and a sense of validation that help build or rebuild this trust. Hamber and Wilson argue that compensation payments also aid recovery by allowing individuals to first focus on their grief and then turn to a TRC to 104 | Following the 1941 Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the subsequent Canadian declaration of war on Japan, Canadians of Japanese heritage (who were mostly settled in British Colombia) were stripped of their rights and sent to internment camps or deported to other provinces and to Japan. The forced relocation and incarceration of Japanese Canadians continued well after the end of WWII until 1949 (for more see Adachi 1991).

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express it (2002:5). In this sense the money can “mark the point of moving into a new phase and represent an individual’s mastery over the past” (2002:5). Importantly they also make clear that financial reparations serve the same psychological end as other symbolic acts of reparation, such as reburials: “They acknowledge and recognize the individual’s suffering and place it within a new officially sanctioned history of trauma. Symbolic representations of the trauma, particularly if the symbols are personalized, can concretize a traumatic event, and help re-attribute responsibility” (emphasis added, Hamber and Wilson 2002:5). But how can money become “personalized”? How can it acquire a constructive (positive) symbolic value? This is a non-negligible challenge for reparations processes and settlements such as the IRSSA, and it sheds light onto the fact that the “mundane” aspects of financial compensations might actually be key to enable this: timing, context, personalisation of the compensatory process (via apology letters or individual support), and appropriate information-giving that enables survivors to make links between various measures such as apologies or TRCs and financial compensations. Therefore it can be hypothesised that these implementation aspects of financial compensations have an important impact on enabling survivors to attribute a positive symbolic meaning to the money. This entails an emotional shift, which in turn is paramount to the work of recovery and reconciliation. Hence there is a clear link between the emotions at work around the experiencing of compensation money on the individual level and how those relate to the so-called national process of reconciliation as encouraged via the IRSSA. We now turn to my fieldwork data and an exploration of how the Mitchikanibikok Inik experienced the two IRSSA financial compensations: the CEP and the IAP.

The C ommon E xperience Payment (CEP) Application and lump sum amount It is for the loss of culture and language stemming from the separation with their families and communities that former residential school students received a Common Experience Payment (CEP). The CEP made survivors eligible for $10,000 CAD plus $3000 CAD for every year they attended a residential school, and payments were allocated fairly quickly after the implementation of the settlement in 2007. The CEP required no proof other than attendance at a residential school for which the federal government was responsible. According to the latest information update by Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada (AANDC, November 2014), the total amount of CEP applications received between 2007 and the September 19th 2011 deadline num-

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

bered at 105,536. Of those applications 79,286 have been paid, 23,902 are considered ineligible and the rest (2,273) are “applications where research has been conducted, but authentication requires additional information from applicants” (AANDC 2014). A total of 27,794 reconsideration requests were submitted, 9769 of which were considered eligible. The average CEP payment levels at $20,455 CAD ringing-up the total cash influx to residential school survivors to $1.6 billion. A total of twenty-eight complete applications are still in progress. In Quebec a total of 5860 former students were eligible for a CEP, and 1368 applications were deemed not eligible (AANDC 2012). Applicants were usually rejected because the school they attended was not recognised by the IRSSA. A document on “School Decisions” issued on the IRSSA website105 lists over 187 rejected schools in Quebec alone. The reasons given are varied: day school, foster care, operated by religious, private or non-governmental organisations, insufficient information, provincially operated etc. Most of the former students who participated in my research received their CEP in 2008, and my analysis of interviews collected mainly between 2010 and 2013 with ten survivors and their families (see chapter three for methodology) clearly indicates dissatisfaction with regards to the financial compensation measures. Speaking to survivors and their families both on and off reserve, two main views emerged: perceiving the money as “shut-up money” and/or perceiving the money as “killer money”.

The CEP as “shut-up money”: anger, irritation, anxiety, despair and distrust The first perspective shared by all the survivors I spoke to was that the money is “shut-up money”. They felt they were getting “paid off” and many expressed anger towards the government and the church. Along with anger, most respondents expressed irritation (frustration) or anxiety with regards to the settlement process and their lawyers. Some reported having felt despair at the “re-opening of wounds” and in general all showed very low hope. Absolutely absent from all the interviews on the CEP with survivors and their family members were reports of emotions such as happiness, pride or gratitude. Motivating these emotions of anger, irritation, anxiety and despair was the common denominator of distrust, which all survivors said they felt, towards the government. This distrust, partly a part of the emotional legacy of residential school days (see chapter six), was also explained as being reinforced by other factors linked to the way the CEP was designed and implemented.

105 | Last accessed online on September 21 st 2015: http://www.residentialschool settlement.ca/SchoolDecisions.pdf

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The first issue for some survivors was feeling “tricked” by the CEP upon knowing that not having opted out of the settlement meant losing the right to sue the Government, the Churches or any other defendant in the class actions that led to the IRSSA. Effectively, the Official Court Notice that circulated in newsletters and on reserves following the approval of the settlement106, gave former students three options: 1. “If you are a former student and you want a payment from the settlement, and you never want to sue the Government of Canada or the Churches on your own, do not opt out: instead, call now to register and a claim form will be mailed to you after August 20, 2007. When it arrives, fill it out and return it.” 2. “If you don’t want a payment, or you think you can get more money than the settlement provides by suing the Government or the Churches on your own, then you must opt out by submitting an Opt Out Form postmarked by August 20, 2007.” 3. “Do nothing: get no payment, give up rights to sue.” These three options are worded in a way that could not be further from the truth, healing and reconciliation language that has since spread through the work of the TRC. It makes clear how “former student” (and family members) who stay in the settlement will never again be able to sue the Government of Canada, the Churches who joined in the settlement, or any other defendant in the class actions over residential schools” (IRSSA, Official Court Notice). This exposes the litigation backdrop to the IRSSA, which was designed not only out of preoccupation for hearing and healing the intergenerational legacy of residential schools, but also out of preoccupation in the face of increasing numbers of class actions and individual cases that were being filed by survivors in the years that led up to the settlement (Stanton 2011). Torn between accepting the CEP to give it to his children and refusing it out of principle, Ogi gwan abik told me: “I just knew there was a catch. They were anxious to give out the first sum so as to alleviate the class action suit. And for it not be recorded in history books of Canada. They don’t want it to go down, the history of Canada. So that’s what their intention was, to settle it out of court” (Ogi gwan abik, 52, August 2010, at someone’s house in Kitigan Zibi). These legal implications influenced word of mouth that generated a widespread sceptical apprehension of the CEP, in turn preventing survivors and their families (regardless of whether they had even considered litigation) from perceiving it as an acknowledgment of the official government apology issued 106 | Last accessed May 1 st 2014 on the IRSSA website: http://www.residentialschool settlement.ca/english_index.html

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

by Prime Minister Stephen Harper in June 2008. Instead, some expressed wanting to opt-out of the settlement out of disgust but bitterly described being too “financially strangled” to do so. While issues of exclusion due to the settlement regulations have been discussed in IRSSA-related literature (for the non-inclusion of day school students in the CEP process for instance see Mercer 2011:32), the aspect of the emotional turmoil brought about by the opt-out option at the time of the CEP applications has not garnered much attention. George, who was sent to Saint-Marc-de-Figuery residential school when he was eight years old, said to me: “Our community’s been waiting for so long, to bring back that self-esteem. And it was very tough. And then we heard this apology from the Prime Minister. It’s just like another stab in the heart by your government that has taken advantage of, abused, our community. And it’s a shame for them to announce this publicly. It is very meaningless. So it’s very sad, and it still keeps going” (George, 53, July 2010, bush camp, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve [VWR]). In 2010 most respondents were not informed about the tripartite aspect of the settlement, and upon learning that it was an agreement between the Churches involved in running the schools, the Government of Canada and the Assembly of First Nations (AFN) and the plaintiffs (former students of Indian Residential Schools), they expressed distrust towards the AFN and the plaintiffs often labelling them as “sell-outs”. In general, survivors and their families expressed having felt excluded from the settlement design and viewed it as something that was imposed by the Government and the Churches. Diana, the sister of a former student told me: “[…] it wasn’t an Aboriginal person that made out the outlines of payment or the process of reconciliation. It wasn’t done by Aboriginal people. It was done by the Government and by the Church” (Diana, 56, August 2010, bush campsite close to airport, VWR). Note that if fraud in the form of “get-rich-quick scams” or investments offering huge returns were a big issue in some reserves upon the announcement of the CEP in 2007107, it was not something respondents in Rapid Lake mentioned.

107 | See for instance the Eagle Feather News (a free monthly Aboriginal newsletter from Saskatchewan) article by Trainor dated May 2007 entitled “Residential school settlements: Protect your money from fraud”. Last accessed online October 1 st 2015: http://aborigin.sasktelwebhosting.com/Resources/Eagle%20Feather%20News%20 -%20May%20Edition_Layout%202.pdf

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The CEP and the issue of individual compensations The other major issue related to the CEP design that respondents spoke about, was that the money was given to individuals, not to families or to communities. Given the required solidarity that bush life imposed (and that survivors had experienced before, and after, their residential school days), Algonquins still frown upon individualism and access to money can generate tensions (Bousquet 2002:422). Moreover, their understandings of self (see chapter four) as composite provides sufficient grounds for apprehending how individual compensations were bound to be somewhat problematic. Former students spoke about the suffering of their parents, who stayed back in the “village of silence” as they called the reserve while the children were away, and also of the suffering of their siblings. Suffering that arose not only from staying back home for the siblings who were older or younger and who did not go to school, but also for the siblings who were sent to foster homes instead. One participant shared with me that she was sent to a foster family in order to attend a day school instead of going to Amos where her brothers were, and that she suffered abuse in that family which led her to eventually quit school. One of her brother’s told me that he felt guilty for receiving IRSSA compensation while she got nothing despite having lived a similarly traumatising experience. Another survivor shared: Our childhood was taken away from us. This caused great suffering to our family. […] And the pain was so tremendous that they couldn’t express it. I had to share those emotions with them. Their emotions were, that they felt guilty, for (me) not being able to be with them, while harvesting. […] It’s all that guilt that they have carried throughout these years, that really, you know, living with it, during their lifetime. And they’re still feeling it today, that guilt.” (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

He continued to explain that the apology was meaningless, and that this was underlined with the decision to compensate individuals and not those who suffered “the removal of their responsibility”: The cause of being educated in a different mentality has caused disruption to the whole community. Not to one individual. […] It’s a shame that the federal government has put again our community into this situation. My father told me not to feel superior to the people that I will be interacting with in my lifetime. And now, the federal government has put a structure in place so that only I will be compensated for the pain that I have gone through. But not my community and what it went through when I was absent in their lives. (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

For some survivors such as Marcel, the CEP created an imbalance that goes against what he learned to value culturally through his father’s teachings, thereby perpetuating disruptions in families and in the community. His statement also reveals the refusal to identify as an individual victim, and the will to support a community sense of identification, which thrives on a strong sense of resistance rather than victimisation (see chapter four). Taken together these three factors: the CEP’s legal implications; respondents’ impressions of the CEP as an imposed deal made by the Government and the Churches; and its implementation to individuals only, generated feelings of being bought108, silenced and controlled. On a more positive note, if the CEP was generally perceived as “shut-up money”, interviews reveal that between 2006, 2010, 2011 and 2013 respondents reported an increase of talk surrounding the settlement and residential schools in the community. As eighty per cent of twenty to forty year olds in the community have a parent who is a survivor, this increase in intergenerational dialogue is noteworthy and has contributed to slowly breaking a long established taboo in some families.

The CEP as “killer money”: indifference, helplessness and lack of support In a conversation we were having on the impacts of the CEP in the reserve, Helen told me: “What I see here with that money we’re getting there, there’s a lot of people who don’t even care about it, like, they have more money to drink, that’s it. They buy a little of the stuff that they need, and the rest they’re drinking with their money” (Helen, 50, August 2010, Rapid Lake). Emotions of indifference and helplessness, this perspective as the money being harmful and contributing to alcohol and drug abuse, or “killer money” as it quickly got dubbed, was more of an issue on reserve than for those living off reserve in the bush. The reserve’s former clinic director, whose parents both went to residential school, put it this way: “I don’t see anything. Like just looking on the reserve there I don’t see anything for support. Yes, there is that, the pay-out that they’re getting, but does it really, do they really heal after they get paid? No. So it does more harm I think to them” (Martina, 35, August 2010, Rapid Lake).

108 | Note that though this was not mentioned to me by any of my informants, Tremblay (2008) and Rankin and Tardif (2011) report that payments (with money or candy) to victims by sexual abusers was a widespread practice at Amos. Tremblay claims that several survivors told him they refused the IRSSA compensation payments because they reminded them of this practice (2008:180).

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A lack of information concerning the payments (about deadlines, procedure and amounts) and the IRSSA in general (interviews from 2010 show that most respondents had not heard of the TRC) was reflected in the lack of services available at the local level for Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors. Some respondents complained about this (usually those who were able to speak and wanted to share their residential school stories with me), while others simply observed the lack of available support and articulated that this was a silent subject (“it’s there but we don’t talk about it”). The first complex trauma recovery workshop for survivors took place in the fall of 2011, three years after most survivors had received their CEP. It was organised by the clinic’s workshop facilitator, a community member trained as a drug and alcohol counsellor who was at the time in charge of designing and implementing wellness programs. That summer just before, reflecting upon the CEP and the IAP payments she told me: In this community the survivors have been very private. They don’t come to the health clinic for any assistance in this area […] I don’t know if it’s because they’ve not developed a way of trusting again, or I don’t know if the people who designed the restitution plan thought about what would happen after they tell their story to the adjudicator. It’s hard to say, why this happened this way, why there’s nothing for them, afterwards. […] What I’ve seen often here is laughter, well you know that person gets 140 thousand dollars [referring to the IAP] and it’s all spent and they have nothing to show for it. It’s a sad thing. There’s no direction really. There’s nobody here working with residential school survivors to teach them anything like budgeting, investment, any of those things. It’s your money, do what you want and that’s it. So why was there such a gap, why is there such a gap between the payment plan and healing, I don’t know. I mean I don’t want to be negative but sometimes I still see it as a form of assimilation. (Ishkote Ikwe, 60, July 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

Two years later in 2013, she reported seeing the results of her trauma workshops as encouraging, and had just found out about funding possibilities via the IRSSA for further workshops. She claimed survivors seemed more ready to address their pasts, because “once that money is all gone, and the trauma is still there, you have to reach out and look for something to make you feel better and to accept better what happened in your life” (Ishkote Ikwe, 62, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic). Yet despite the hopeful development reported by this workshop facilitator, a factor that adds complexity to the issue is the diverging views within the community concerning programs and their usefulness. For Marcel, programs are also part of an assimilative framework, and as a survivor, he claims pouring money into the community will not help: “The only way that’s going to help resolve this situation that they put us into, is for us to have a say in how we’re

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

going to manage our lives. Just the way we have preserved our language, without their programs and services, because our language it’s a key to our identity, it’s the way we live by and interact with […] the land” (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake). When I asked Marcel what concrete step could be taken towards that, he answered: “Well, it’s really simple. […] The language to survive, it requires a land base. They have to give back the land, or the community has to have a say in how our resources are being exploited. We have to have a say in the management of our traditional territory” (Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake). A common concern for the land and with regards to forestry operations was unanimous among all respondents. For Grace, a first generation residential school survivor who was sent to two different schools in Ontario as a child: What the government is doing today [with the payments] is he’s trying to cover up all the things, he thinks it’s going to heal the people. It’s not going to heal the people. He has to stop what he’s doing to us. He does everything, like he’s taken our land away from us. […] So that’s the way I think about the government, it’s real dirty. He doesn’t look at the Indians, I think what he’s trying to do is get rid of the Indians. […] But there’s a lot of Indian peoples now, putting their minds to go to school. So we can fight the government. (Grace, 71, August 2011, at her cabin in the bush, VWR)

The I ndependent A ssessment P rocess (IAP) Application, hearing and point-based financial compensation evaluation Ronald Niezen describes the Independent Assessment Process (IAP) as rendering “the victimization of children into a dollar amount and a cheque in the mail” (2013:45). It is a claimant-centred out-of-court process meant to efficiently deal with allegations of sexual and physical abuses that took place in residential schools. Though slightly less tedious than an actual trial in court, substantial proof and legal assistance were required to file such a claim before the September 19th 2012 deadline. Most of the participants in my research had finished their IAP process by 2011. A total of 37,963 former students filed an IAP across the country, 83 per cent of which have been resolved. Of those, 4913 were not admitted or withdrawn and the average IAP payment levels at $113,324 CAD ringing-up the total cash influx to survivors of residential schools to $2,782 billion (AANDC, November 2014). In Quebec 2188 former students filed an IAP, 1975 of those have been resolved and 213 are still in progress (Adjudication Secretariat Statistics, September 30th 2015).

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Unlike for the CEP, claimants need a lawyer to file an IAP application that includes a report of the alleged abuse. Once their application has gone through, they obtain a hearing date. The setting is non-confrontational, meaning that claimants do not have to face their alleged abuser during their hearing. However the Indian Residential Schools Adjudication Secretariat (the federal agency that handles the settlement agreement claims) contacts so-called “Persons of Interest” accused in a claimants report prior to any hearing. These alleged abusers are informed of the allegations and of their right to send in a statement or arrange a separate hearing. At the end of their “hearing day”, survivors’ testimonies are evaluated according to a point system classified into three main sections: “Acts Proven”, “Consequential Harm” and “Consequential Loss of Opportunity”. Each of these sections is further broken down into different categories and ranked according to the severity of the abuse. The first section of “Acts Proven” is broken down into seven categories; the first includes “Repeated, persistent incidents of anal or vaginal penetration with an object” and is accorded 45-60 points, while “One or more incidents of oral intercourse” is accorded 26-35 points and “One or more physical assaults causing a physical injury that led to or should have led to hospitalization or serious medical treatment by a physician; […]” is accorded 11-25 points (IRSSA Schedule “D” 2006:3). Under the section “Consequential Harm” there are five categories, the highest in points being “Continued harm resulting in serious dysfunction” (2025 points) all the way down to the lowest: “Modest Detrimental Impacts” (1-5 points). The final section on “Consequential Loss of Opportunity” also determines five categories of loss in relation to the ability to work and to be employed, ranging from “Chronic inability to obtain employment” (21-25 points) to “Diminished work capacity – physical strength, attention span” (1-5 points). Points obtained in all three sections constitute the final score, which corresponds to the amount the survivor will obtain as an IAP payment. Niezen describes the criteria that form the basis of the claims process as having “the effect of clarifying, but at the same time heightening and making uncomfortable, the associations between financial compensation and traumatic experience” (2013:47).

The IAP hearings: anger, despair, injustice and distrust A closer look at the emotions elicited by the IAP process among five respondents clearly back this claim: all reported feeling angry and/or in despair right after their hearing. The experience of having to tell or retell their stories of abuse was distressing, and they felt that parts of their stories had not been

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

believed by the adjudicating committee (a common feeling expressed by other IAP claimants I spoke to as well). To top off the lack of validation they had hoped for, all five were attributed less points than they had been expecting. For Ogi gwan abik: It was a catch 22. They told us, tell me about what happened at residential school. So I went back to my childhood. I began to cry. They didn’t want to hear about sexual abuse, they wanted to hear everything. And after I told my story, they made me sign a form that I wasn’t allowed to speak about it. […] And the physical, the spiritual, the mental abuse, he says: that counts for the CEP. So had I known that, I wouldn’t have wasted my time telling the whole story. […] So they’re not doing it for us, they’re doing it for them. […] You know, I figured in the morning they make you cry, and in the afternoon they make you mad. And I’m very angry. I don’t trust them anymore. (Ogi gwan abik, 53, August 2011, at his home in the bush, VWR)

This statement makes clear that Ogi gwan abik felt “tricked” by the IAP, especially due to confusion around a confidentiality agreement (“the form” referred to in the above quote) that he had to sign (and which he was not provided a copy of) and that made him wonder whether or not he was still allowed to speak about his residential school experience at all. Shedding light on this, a newsletter that provides procedural information concerning the IAP (and that was issued by a law firm that provides IAP legal services) explains: “The Survivor must also sign a confidentiality agreement. This agreement does not place any limits on their ability to speak about their own story. Rather it requires that if the survivor hears information about other people, they must agree not to speak about this outside of the hearing” (Donovan and company, Aboriginal Law Newsletter, July 2010).109 For Ogi gwan abik, adding to this feeling of having been tricked was his impression that he had been misled into speaking about his overall experience, which was of no relevance for the IAP, to divert the evaluation of his sexual and physical abuse so as to include as much of it as possible into the CEP and thereby cap his IAP amount. Beyond feeling tricked, Ogi gwan abik experienced his IAP as an injustice: “If I had been messed up, I would’ve got more. But I wasn’t messed up. I started my healing journey a long time ago. I’m more calm. I see things. But I never trusted them. Now to this day I don’t trust them” (Ogi gwan abik, 53, August 2011, at his home in the bush, VWR).

109 | Donovan and company, Barristers and Solicitors, Aboriginal Law Newsletter July 2010 Vol. 12 (1), last accessed May 17th 2014: http://www.aboriginal-law.com/~abo rig/uploads//documents/PDFs/July2010newsletter.pdf

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For Sheila, a survivor of the first generation sent to Ontario, the experience of the IAP was also one that generated anger and reinforced distrust. She first received a letter after her hearing that confirmed the compensation amount she would get, and then she received a second letter saying she would not get anything. The reason she was given, she claims, was that she had not reported the sexual abuse (carried out by another student) to the caretakers at the time110: “But they knew about it,” Sheila told me. “Actually to say they knew it, they saw it. And at the time when I was telling that (in the IAP), I held back with some of my story. Thinking that they wouldn’t believe me anyways so I didn’t actually say it. So they took it back. And I had bought some stuff for my daughter because I knew that I was going to receive that. And they turned around and didn’t give it. So I’m in a hole. I have over three thousand dollars debt.” (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR) This statement underlines that Sheila entered the IAP with a sense of distrust, which she carried already at the time of her childhood abuse when the adults failed to protect her (from another student). This distrust in relation to this part of her life-story was reinforced with her failed IAP application, which could be partly due to her own resistance from complying with full disclosure. So it is with this mind-frame that Sheila emerged from the CEP and IAP processes: with deep-seated feelings of injustice and a reinforced sense of distrust. For others, such as Pidajemo Peneshish, Roy or Helen, the IAP hearing was also a harrowing experience: it was the first time they spoke in such detail about the abuses they experienced as children. Helen reported feeling “flooded” with anguish. “My abuser is dead so there can be no justice,” she said “I just want to keep that closet closed.” Again, respondents described a lack of local services to support them after their IAP. This was confirmed by the clinic’s program facilitator, in charge of the community’s wellness programs: The money cannot heal the pain and the sorrow. It can cover it up for a while. It can allow the survivor to forget about it for a while but it always comes back. And with that comes again the use of substances to cover up that pain that’s never been dealt with. I mean some of the survivors tell their story for the first time to the adjudicator at IAP. And what is there after that? There’s no follow up. There is no method taught to them of how to put 110 | Note that as the category title “Acts Proven” makes clear, there is a burden of proof attached to the IAP. As outlined in the IRSSA Schedule “D” section “h” the “Burden of Proof and Evidentiary Standards” is the standard used by the civil courts for matters of like seriousness and although “this means that as the alleged acts become more serious, adjudicators may require more cogent evidence before being satisfied that the Claimant has met their burden of proof, the standard of proof remains the balance of probabilities in all matters” (IRSSA Schedule “D” 2006:12).

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations these memories in a safe place and heal that pain. There’s nothing like that for them. A lot of them are very angry at the amount of money that the lawyers take from them for representing them at the adjudication. That again, it’s just pilling up more anger, more hurt on the people. That’s what people have told me. (Ishkote Ikwe, 62, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic)

The IAP, law yers and distrust The Indian Residential Schools Adjudication Secretariat recommends that lawyers charge no more than thirty per cent of the compensation amount. As Niezen describes, this encourages lawyers to give priority to claims likely to be successful and lucrative (2013:48), which points to “a structural contradiction in the claims process: it has disadvantaged some of those who were the most distressed, those who suffered lifelong mental illness, with all the attendant symptoms of trauma like trouble remembering and acute anxiety when faced with the challenge of recalling traumatic events” (2013:48). Yet, as Ogi gwan abik’s experience makes clear, survivors who are articulate about their suffering do not necessarily “get more” especially if they have worked hard towards feeling better and do not expose themselves as victims only. A lawyer who was hired by people from the community (and others) to file their IAP claims, and who was fired by one of my informants over money issues111, explained it to me as follows: If I take a class action as against a wrongdoer out there in the commercial world, you’ll not see the wrongdoer administering the compensation. But here we have administration of compensation by the wrongdoer. And the template that has been set-up for the Independent Assessment Process, is brilliant, for the wrongdoer. Not so brilliant for the victim. And what I mean by that is that the reason why they need a lawyer is because it’s specifically set-up in such a way that it limits, it brings down the concept of relief in order that it can fit the expediency of capping the amount of money that will go out for the survivors. So in other words if I grade sexual abuse from one through five, and I put it according to certain points, then what I’ve done is I’ve graded according to what 111 | Note that survivors across Canada have come forward with complaints about their lawyers in link to the IAP. Some are suing their lawyers for damages and an article from June 18 th 2015 entitled “Another residential school lawyer accused of ‘professional misconduct’” (Kathleen Martens, APTN) reported that over a dozen lawyers dealing with survivors across the country were under investigation by IAP officials at the time. Allegations mostly have to do with inappropriate legal fees, the mishandling of compensations claims, communication failures and arranging high-interest loans from moneylenders. Article last accessed online October 1 st 2015: http://aptn.ca/news/2015/06/18/ another-residential-school-lawyer-accused-professional-misconduct/

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He claimed survivors need a lawyer to assist them through the IAP “because all of this is set up by lawyers”112 . Participants shared that many details of their residential school experiences came out for the first time when they were filing their IAP claim with their lawyer, but in retrospect the general distrust they described as having towards the IAP extended to their lawyers. On a final note, a general lack of information outreach concerning procedure caused stress for many survivors, especially upon hearing of other survivors’ hearing experiences. Respondents came to me with questions concerning legal release and the usefulness of seeing a psychiatrist before their hearing. While lawyers quickly offered their services to survivors on reserve113, respondents in general complained of “finding out about everything too late”. On March 20th 2014, three years after most of my informants had begun their IAP process, the Indian Residential Schools Adjudication Secretariat released a video entitled “Telling your Story” to help claimants prepare for their hearing in the Independent Assessment Process (IAP). Though quite detailed, the seventeen-minute English (also available in French) video makes no mention of the confidentiality agreement. Over one month later, on May 1st 2014, the video (posted on you tube) only had 519 hits.

112 | Note that he does not consider himself a “regular lawyer” as he and his non-profit organisation are solely dedicated to “assisting native people wherever we can and however we can in relation to their issues”. 113 | One informant even explained to me that she had been approached by a lawyer who proposed that she file a CEP for having stayed a few weeks with her mother (whom she shared a room with) who worked at Louvicourt, a school which was not officially recognised by the IRSSA (reason given: “insufficient information”) and where this respondent did not attend classes.

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The IRSSA financial compensations , emotions and the wider conte x t The emotions generated by the CEP and the IAP: anger, despair, frustration, anxiety and distrust need to be understood within a wider context. As chapter four underlined, the ten survivors who shared their IRSSA experiences with me all told me about the history of their community, the stories they had heard or experienced as children with game wardens, hunting restrictions, missionaries, Indian agents, removal and destruction of traditional territories. Looking at the settlement in this light, in the light of what they perceive as attempted destruction in the face of their resistance, they view the settlement as insufficient and question its intent.

Social ser vices and foster homes The distrust is reinforced when ongoing practices are considered, for instance the removal of children by social workers and their placements in foster homes outside the community. Citing from a statistical and narrative report issued by Amerindian Social Services in March 2006, one community member underlined that during the one year period from April 1st 2005 to March 31st 2006, the report shows that twenty-four children under age eighteen were “taken into care”: seven were placed in foster homes, two in group homes, four with extended family, two were sent to an “institutional resource” and nine were left in their “natural environment” but under observation. For that same period thirty-seven youth protection files had been opened. Two years after I had finished conducting interviews on financial compensations and the IRSSA, child welfare was still a burning topic. Effectively, a recent protest in November 2015 by some community members in front of the “Centres Jeunesse de L’Outaouais”114 in Maniwaki aimed to gain attention and support for what community representatives describe as a crisis regarding their children. The little media coverage it got underlined a clash in perspectives between the community and social services: while band council chief Casey Ratt deplored the lack of collaboration between the community and the DPJ115, 114 | CJO – the region’s social services that deal with children and teenagers who are signalled as potentially at risk. 115 | The acronym DPJ stands for the “Directeur de la Protection de la Jeunesse” (Director of Youth Protection), who is the person in charge of overseeing the application of youth protection laws in his/her region in Quebec (there are nineteen directors in total). Community members commonly use the term DPJ to refer to the whole body of people (including those at CJO) across departments who work with these directors and oversee services pertaining to child welfare in Quebec’s seventeen administrative regions.

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the latter claimed they had provided the community with an agreement protocol and never heard back from them (Radio CHGA 116, November 18th 2015). It also revealed a disagreement on numbers, with one representative from the community claiming that 279 children have been placed since 2007, while the region’s DPJ says that in the last fifteen years only seventy-seven children from Rapid Lake were temporarily removed from their families and placed mostly with Aboriginal families (Dejouy, La Gatineau November 11th 2015). Community members participating in the protest claimed that since 2000 there have been 267 CJO files opened in Maniwaki for children from their community alone. In the context of a social emergency funding request (for a wave of youth suicide attempts in the community) made by the community to Health Canada and the First Nations of Quebec and Labrador Health and Social Services Commission (FNQLHSSC) that was turned down in September 2015, a band council member explained to me that he was not surprised it had been rejected because the community does not allow FNQLHSSC first line services117 on the reserve. The reason for this rejection of first line services is that they would like to have community elders involved in the safety evaluation and the decision making process concerning the placement of children. He claimed they have been asking for this since an agreement they made with social services and Health Canada in 1994.118 Nearly half of the 30,000 children and teenagers in care across the country are Aboriginal, despite representing only 4.3 per cent of the overall population. In Quebec, where Aboriginal children represent two per cent of all children, ten per cent of the children in care are Aboriginal and the principal reason for intervention is neglect (Bélair-Cirino, Le Devoir, July 23rd 2015). While comparative studies seriously lack in the case of Aboriginal children’s overrepresentation in protection services in Quebec (Breton 2011), it seems obvious that in a community home to roughly 500 people, twenty-four children “taken into care” in the period of one year (2006) is high and that community representatives and health care providers have grounds for their concern. Other First Nations communities in Quebec share this concern as was made evident by the fast carried out by two kokoms (grandmothers) for the children in foster care in the 116 | Last accessed online November 19 th 2015: http://www.chga.fm/des-familles-delac-barriere-ont-manifeste-a-maniwaki/ 117 | According to the FNQLHSSC website: “First-line social services are offered as part of First Nations child and family services to support parents, children and families in the communities by way of overall preventive and culturally-adapted services.” For more information on this Quebec non-profit organisation and its child and family services see: https://www.cssspnql.com/en/areas-of-intervention/social-services/ child-family-assistance/first-line-services (last accessed November 2 nd 2015). 118 | Note that I could not obtain a copy of this agreement.

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Algonquin community of Lac Simon in November 2013119 and which obtained public support from Mitchikanibikok Inik community members. As the following excerpt from an interview I carried out with the new clinic director in 2013 illustrates, the impression of being unjustly targeted by social services was a recurrent theme in interviews with community members, and the link between the current placements of children in foster care as a continuation of a residential school type policy was frequently made: Balash: We tried to get the director of CJO involved in our Taking Action conference and he sent his worker there, one of the regular workers that come here. And of course the parents that were targeted by CJO they were mad, they were frustrated. And they just, like basically they wanted answers from that girl who did not have it. And I don’t even know what she was doing there, she was just stumped. […] These people wanted answers. I think that CJO kind of failed some of the parents and well, for the support services, providing services that they were suppose to provide. I think they failed, and they just took ’em out of the community and that was where a lot of the anger came from too, not finding a reasonable solution that would serve both people, like parents and the CJO, but mainly kind of abuse their authority and take ’em out. A-M Reynaud: So they don’t consult with the parents and try to find good Balash (interrupts): No. No and they’ll change a lot of their stories, CJO. They’ll say this and they’ll turn around and change it, CJO will change their story: “oh no I didn’t say 2 o’clock I said 3 o’clock”, something as simple as that, for a meeting or a visit A-M Reynaud: And then the person’s not there and Balash (interrupts): And they’ll put it in their report […]. So I don’t think they’re fair to our community members or their clientele even. […] It’s laziness and abuse of power, to take these kids out. And then there’s, imagine a parent and the child is being taken away when they’re trying to you know, get well, for their sake and the child’s wellbeing. And then you do all this stuff and then they say “oh you can’t see him” because of one incident or something. I know there was one of that that happened, and she was broken. […] and you know when you work on something so hard and you don’t get it, the person’s 119 | According to a Radio Canada report at the time, sixty children had been removed from their families, thirty of whom had been placed outside the community. Fifteen grandparents wrote a manifesto on behalf of the community concerning the situation in Lac Simon, and one of the fifteen complaints they made was that social workers exaggerate in their signalling of children at risk – using, for instance, the fact that a child has lice as a sufficient reason. Last accessed online, November 2 nd 2015: http://ici. radio-canada.ca/regions/abitibi/2013/11/14/003-blocus-leve-lac-simon.shtml

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It is no surprise that the current practice of child removal reminds community members of residential schools, as the impact on the children is comparable. Neuro-psychiatrist Boris Cyrulnik explains the impact of child removal as follows: “When separation removes the child for his protection, this is an additional trauma. The child already traumatized by his parents retains the memory that those who wanted to protect him only attacked him all over again” (2003:18). According to Cindy Blackstock, the director of the First Nations Child and Family Caring Society of Canada, neglect, which is the main cause for child removal across Aboriginal communities, is linked to poverty, substance abuse and housing issues (Blackstock 2008:167). She argues for a focused and broad based social activism to address structural risk to communities: “Research indicates that voluntary sector services such as food banks, literacy programs, recreation, low-income housing and domestic violence services routinely used by child protection workers off reserve to support families are rarely available on reserve […] removal is often the only option to resolve child safety concerns on reserves instead of the last resort” (Blackstock 2008:169). This means also taking into account jurisdictional and funding issues that arise partly because the provinces and territories do not necessarily top-up federal payments for reserve services resulting in Aboriginal children on reserves getting inequitable services (for more on this issue see McDonald and Ladd 2000; Sinha et al. 2015).

Deforestation The other area of ongoing struggle that community members voiced in connection to their views on the IRSSA concerns the logging of traditional family territories and resource exploitation (hunting and fishing) on what Mitchikanibikok Inik community members consider as their land and not as a “wildlife reserve”. The community has a long history of resistance over land management and resource extraction issues (see chapters two and four and Pasternak 2013), and is also home to different outlooks on land management that are a source of tensions. Still, if various strategies and goals are deployed and desired by community members, a common concern is shared: they generally feel left out and disrespected when it comes to land-related decisions. The logging of specific family territories and the differences in opinion as to how to deal with this – either protest to fully block the logging operations or try to push for a co-management and resource revenue sharing agreement – frequently pits community members against one another despite their common concern for

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

the territory. A recurrent form of ontological distress can be found throughout all the interviews with Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and elders, who understand their identity and language as intrinsically linked to the land and to the activities they carry out on it (see chapter four). Though this urgency does not come through as intensely in the interviews with the “new generations” (the children and grandchildren of survivors, see chapter three) they identify similar barriers to the so-called reconciliation process. Jack, whose parents went to residential school, commented on the IRSSA: That’s not reconciliation, it’s assimilation that’s happening. That’s what this government is about. They’re very strong about criminalising our people because we’re connected to the land and they’re always going to criminalise people that will make a stand to try to make a change. We need the land to survive. But we need to have a process, a way, to insure that there is environmental protection, cultural protection, and economical opportunities for ABL [Algonquins of Barriere Lake] to survive in today’s world. Recognise that we have to change and adapt because our approach and philosophy is about coexistence. You’re there, I’m here. How do we work together? How does ABL fit into their picture within their own territory and jurisdiction? That’s the way I see it. (Jack, 42, July 2013, Rapid Lake)

Jack’s statement reflects the way the community identifies as people who “stand to try to make a change”, who have resisted and still resist, and who in this context of ongoing struggle are bound to feel distrust towards the government and its undertakings. This brings us to look at the repercussions of CEP and IAP experiences and perspectives on the IRSSA’s reconciliation aspirations.

The IRSSA financial compensations , symbolic me anings and distrust As was made clear earlier, examples from dissatisfied victims, or their descendants, in the face of financial compensation after past atrocity are widespread. Hamber’s work on post-apartheid South Africa (2009) highlights the importance of considering how and why financial compensation can take on a positive or a negative symbolic significance. This first presupposes that recipients make a shift from understanding the money from a purely economic perspective to a more symbolic perspective. This shift to a symbolic perspective is important because it entails an emotional shift, which in turn is key to the work of recovery and reconciliation. Without it, financial compensation cannot enable recovery in the spirit of “healing and reconciliation”. This clearly underlines the link between the emotions at work around the experiencing of compensation

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money on the individual level and how those relate to the so-called national process of reconciliation as encouraged via the IRSSA. Hamber and Wilson claim that when reparations are allocated before the survivor is psychologically ready, any form of reparation can be expected to leave the survivor feeling dissatisfied: “When survivors or families of victims disparagingly talk of reparations as a form of blood money (as some do in Chile, Brazil, Argentina and Northern Ireland), this is because the national process of ‘reconciliation’ does not coincide with the individual psychological process” (Hamber and Wilson 2002:16). Along these lines scholars have argued that it is key for financial compensation to be linked to processes of truth-telling, otherwise the danger is that money is elevated over human dignity and ends-up trivializing the harm or suggesting a payoff for silence (Minow 1998:131-132; Hamber and Wilson 2002:16). “Although compensation can make a material difference, as can more traditional symbolic measures, it is limited in its psychologically reparative power, particularly if unaccompanied by other measures.” (Hamber 2009:99) And it is in their isolation (at all stages: application and reception) that financial compensation present risks: a tedious application “may be cumbersome and promote humiliation and conflict rather than dignity and reconciliation” (Govier 2006:188) and a fragile individual left alone with “meaningless” money might spend it in detrimental ways. As mentioned earlier in this chapter, Hamber and Wilson argue that financial reparations can serve the same psychological end as other symbolic acts of reparation by providing symbolic representations of the trauma – especially if the symbols are personalised (emphasis added, Hamber and Wilson 2002:5). Hence my insistence that the “mundane” aspects of financial compensation are key in enabling the “personalisation” that might result in generating positive symbolic meaning. Some of these “mundane” aspects are: the timing, the context, the personalisation of the compensatory process (via apology letters or individual support), and the appropriate sharing of information to enable survivors to make links between various settlement measures such as the TRC and the financial compensations. As outlined at the start of this chapter, Regan claims that “ethical reconciliation” requires more than an apology: also needed is financial compensation along with a questioning of the moral foundation of settler societies (2010:58). Regan therefore makes a causal link between the monetary reparations and the work of the TRC, which is partly mandated to bring Canadians to question their perspective of “settler-history”. The Canadian TRC makes explicit in its mandate that it has, among other responsibilities, the duty of providing a context and meaning for the CEP through its national events (Schedule “N”, 10 [A] [c]). In fact, the IRSSA situates truth telling and reconciliation (TRC) as part of “an overall holistic and comprehensive response to the Indian Residential School lega-

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

cy” (emphasis added), therefore underlining that it is part of a wider settlement and implying that the work of truth telling and reconciliation is also linked to the other settlement measures. Yet, in a public address she gave shortly before the fifth national TRC event in Montreal120, TRC Commissioner Wilson denied any link between the TRC and the financial compensation measures. This denial on her behalf as a representative of the IRSSA underlines her confusion in regards to the financial compensation and how it is linked with healing and reconciliation as encouraged by the IRSSA. In this light, the relevance of the data on survivor payment experiences that was put forward in this chapter gains more weight. Several factors contributed to Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents experiencing the financial compensation in a negative way and as isolated from the rest of the settlement measures. Among others: • The CEP’s legal implications. Respondents’ impressions of the CEP as an imposed deal made by the Government and the Churches. • The lack of “personalisation” in the implementation process: the fact that the money was allocated to Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors with no individualised or collective personalisation process, such as individualised apology letters and an address (or a gesture) to recognise the collective suffering of the rest of the community. • The lack of a support system at the local level when the majority of the respondents received their payments. • The lack of information about the overall process, generating gossip, distrust and the inability for respondents and their families to establish links between the various measures. • The problematic timing121: respondents received payments years before the TRC came to Quebec in 2013 (four provincial TRC events and one national event took place in 2013). • The wider context: land issues (logging), current child removal practices by social services etc. Mitchikanibikok Inik emotions and opinions regarding the financial compensation show that while there was a pivotal shift from an economic to a symbolic understanding of the money, the symbolic meaning the money took on was not 120 | TRC Commissioner Wilson in a public address at the workshop entitled Native Residential Schools in Quebec: Legacies for Research, Université de Montréal and Concordia University, May 19 th 2013. 121 | Note here the similarity with the dissatisfaction in the South African post-apartheid context (though in that case victims got compensation money five years after the work of the TRC was over) where the delays and small sums generated feelings of betrayal for victims (Doxtader and Villa-Vicenco 2004).

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the IRSSA-intended ‘money-as-recognition’ understanding. For survivors and their families, the “shut-up money” and “killer money” symbolic understandings taken on by the financial compensation did not work towards eliciting feelings of recognition and trust. Rather they reinforced an existing sense of distrust linked not only to the legacy of residential schools, but also to the colonial framework which was host to the existence of such school policies and which they perceive as still existing today. General dissatisfaction and reinforced distrust in relation to the money was also found in research carried out by Mercer (2011) in relation to the experience of the CEP by Tsawout First Nations survivors, as well as in research carried out by Jeffrey Denis (2011) on apology, compensation and relations between ‘aboriginal’ and ‘white’ residents of the Rainy River District in Ontario122 . While Mercer warns of the possibility of payments becoming a means of re-victimisation and re-colonisation, claiming this is how Tsawout First Nations survivors experienced it, my data shows that survivors and their families also articulate a sense of self that above all conveys the will to resist rather than be victimised by a settlement plan which they perceive is of questionable intent. Supporting this claim is also the fact that Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents showed no desire for revenge (despite articulating anger and distrust). The empirical results at the heart of this chapter put forward the existence of distrust at the local level for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. On the effects of distrust, Govier writes: “When we distrust, we will regard the possibility of harm as one that is significant and must be taken into account when we are making our plans. Such feelings and beliefs are enough to make our relationship uneasy and unproductive. Furthermore, distrust will make us interpret events in negative ways” (Govier 2006:19). This underlines how the lack of a sense 122 | Despite the fact that the “two compensation regimes have cast long shadows” (Niezen 2013:43), only four studies that I am aware of have so far explored that dimension of the settlement: an in-depth AHF study (Reimer et al. 2010), an overall positive CEP-related service delivery evaluation report by Employment and Social Development Canada (2013), and two graduate thesis studies (Mercer 2011; Denis 2011). Most other scholars essentially draw from the AHF study to discuss the payments from the perspective of the survivors. As already explained in chapter one, the AHF study analysed the impact of the CEP on over 200 recipients across Canada and found that more survivors described positive types of impacts of payments than negative impacts (executive summary xiv). Though this study does not downplay the amplitude of the negative impacts (and the mixed emotions) generated by the money, one serious limitation calls for putting it into perspective: the study took place mainly at AHF project sites. Therefore the study sample may be skewed in favour of Survivors who were getting support (Reimer et al. 2010:15). This gives added relevance to my study that took place in a community that was not an AHF project site.

Chapter 7 – “Shut-up Money”: The IRSSA and Financial Compensations

of basic trust makes the transformation of relationships and the possibility of “ethical reconciliation” very difficult. As much as the wider context calls for the need to find ways to implement structural changes (in terms of child welfare for instance) to work towards reconciliation, the identification of issues linked to normalised violence, economic struggle and a difficult local political climate that reinforces fear and distrust among the Mitchikanibikok Inik also pointed to the need for trust building within the community. To conclude, the IRSSA includes financial compensation measures and articulates them as part of the wider bedrock necessary for instigating a process of reconciliation. The impacts of the financial compensation therefore need to be considered as they contribute to the emotional mind-frame with which participants make sense of the TRC events and the IRSSA’s overall aspiration for reconciliation. The financial compensation has been critically considered for its influence on the self-exclusion of Catholic Church representatives from TRC proceedings in what Niezen (2013) coins as a “revolt of the accused”, mainly due to the IAP’s “Person of Interest” procedure that has called forth grievances on behalf of alleged abusers who deny accusations. While the absence of the government coupled with the indignant attitude of the Catholic Church at TRC events (Niezen 2013) can be seen as barriers to the IRSSA’s reconciliation aspirations, this chapter has shown that survivor emotions generated by the payments cannot be left out of the reconciliation equation either. The research presented in this chapter puts forward that Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families are dissatisfied and angry about the financial compensation. They did not experience the compensation in connection to the other elements of the settlement package, like the apology or the TRC, and therefore questions of intent and meaning quickly arose. Indeed the temporary increase in consumer power enabled via the compensation was quickly over, and nothing of positive lasting impact was put in place for the community with the IRSSA money. Besides underlining the importance of the “mundane” aspects of implementation issues with regards to financial compensation and the symbolic meaning they acquire, this chapter argues that compensation can elicit emotions that maintain or even create new barriers in reconciliation projects. In this case, emotions such as anger, anxiety and despair in relation to the financial compensation measures, revealed existing barriers of distrust at the local level for survivors who felt silenced and controlled by the compensation.

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The woman screamed from a place inside herself where there was so much pain that the air froze in the lobby of the Queen Mary Hotel in Montreal. “My daughter hung herself and nobody cares,” she yelled over and over again. Quickly, staff from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) tried to catch her as she wildly ran for the doors of the Grand Salon where the welcoming ceremony of the fifth national event had just begun. She flung herself to the ground, still wailing and trying to get away from TRC staff members determined to stop her from entering the room. Inside the Grand Salon, the drums were beating so loud that this wild chase was kept from the media, keen on getting the images of the event opening. I had just run into Ogi gwan abik. He had driven down from the Verendrye a few days earlier with Lea, to join me at a conference on residential schools organised by two Montreal universities just before the TRC event. We stood there in the lobby, interrupted in our reunion and feeling this woman’s pain, while flustered at the insistence from TRC staff that we must at once enter the Grand Salon. Such raw displays of anger mixed with despair were not commonplace at the Montreal TRC event that unfolded from April 24th to April 27th 2013. And yet, in contrast to retributive justice mechanisms, TRCs are known for encouraging emotional expression. Their victim-centred approaches provide platforms for people who have suffered devastating abuses to share their stories. The Canadian TRC creates both public and private spaces for survivors to share their memories of residential schools: National Events across Canada (seven in total, and an additional closing event in 2015), Community Events and Individual Statement-Taking/Truth Sharing. These official spaces created by the Commission engage peoples’ emotions through the giving and receiving of difficult stories. The transformative potentials and challenges of these spaces are important to consider in as how they relate to historical renderings, healing and reconciliation. The opening story in this introduction suggests that TRCs (like work places) create emotional norms, or feeling rules (Hochschild 1979:557) that specify

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in which ways emotions are to be felt, by whom and when and how they should be expressed (in their form and intensity). This chapter explores Ure’s claim that the politics of reconciliation, as embodied through mechanisms such as TRCs, are host to a fundamental tension between two competing imperatives: the imperative of fidelity to legitimate emotions stemming from injustice (such as anger, rage or sorrow) and the countervailing imperative to overcome these emotions for the sake of reconciliation (2008:285-287). According to Ure, victims in TRC settings are therefore actively encouraged, if not compelled, to banish their anger (2008:285). From this claim ensues this chapter’s main questions: If Ure’s claim is applicable in the Canadian TRC context, how do survivors of residential school make sense of the TRC? How do they deal with this emotionally tense process? Drawing from qualitative fieldwork with twenty-two members of the Mitchikanibikok Inik community carried out before, during and after the Montreal TRC event, I analyse the voices of three survivors to try to better understand what prompted their participation in the TRC event, how they experienced it at the time, and how they reflect back upon it three months later. This chapter123 first approaches Ure’s claim by drawing from the South African TRC experience to look at what shapes these countervailing emotional imperatives in the context of the Canadian TRC. Second, it draws from survivor experiences of the TRC to explore the feeling rules that, while encouraging survivors to express their suffering and emotions by legitimising their experiences, also reveal the tension created by the aim to repair and renew personal and political relationships that calls for an “overcoming” or “healing” of difficult emotions for the sake of fostering a process of reconciliation. It shows how the way that survivors make sense of the TRC in this double-bind context reflects this tension. And finally, it looks at how some survivors’ ways of dealing with “Ure’s tension” via emotional transgressions led to productive action outside the TRC spaces.

TRC s and emotions The South African TRC The well-known 1994 post-apartheid South African TRC was one of many TRCs that have been adopted across the world as a way to deal with victims and perpetrators of collective atrocity in processes of national reconciliation (see introduction). It had the power to grant amnesty from prosecution to perpetrators 123 | It should be noted that a modified version of this chapter has already been published (Reynaud 2014).

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

who testified of their politically motivated crimes. This is, according to Ure, the highly controversial way that the South African TRC tried to balance the antinomy between recognising and repudiating anger and indignation (2008:286). For Archbishop Desmond Tutu, a leading figure of the South African TRC, the future of the nation depended on securing social harmony, the greatest good. He argued: “Anything that subverts or undermines this sought-after good is to be avoided like the plague. Anger, resentment, lust for revenge, even success through aggressive competitiveness, are corrosive of this good” (1999:34). The active encouragement to forgive perpetrators became a key component to deal with anger and other emotions perceived as dangerous and was made possible by the participation of perpetrators. It led to some cathartic moments: “No one could have predicted that day’s turn of events at the hearing. It was as if someone had waved a special magic wand which transformed anger and tension into this remarkable display of communal forgiveness and acceptance of erstwhile perpetrators” (Tutu 1999:117). Tutu’s association of anger with danger reflects what Paul Muldoon describes as a Christian-inspired morality (also found in certain strands of the Graeco-Roman ethical tradition) that tends to regard anger as one of the biggest threats to the recognition and realisation of our common humanity (2008:299). Following this commonly held view, anger can lead to disproportioned revenge and resentment. Thus anger becomes something to be feared and overcome. In the South African TRC’s post-apartheid context, one of unstable political transition after mass violence, it is easy to understand how the risks of renewed violence and revenge were legitimate preoccupations and why anger was dealt with through the strongly suggested practice of forgiveness124. In this context, Ure’s claim points to an obvious emotional tension. But how does this claim extend to a TRC in a non-transitional political context like Canada, where there is no obvious risk of sudden exploding violence or revenge?

The Canadian TRC As underlined in the book’s introduction, National Chief Phil Fontaine clarified in 2007 that the Canadian TRC was not modelled on the South African model. Along the same lines, in 2011 TRC Commissioner Sinclair insisted that the Canadian TRC does not consider forgiveness as a requirement. If it differs 124 | In addition to forgiveness, Sonali Chakravarti suggests there were also three other ways in which the South African Commission constrained the expression of anger: “through its inability to resolve the conflict between an investigation of material evidence and the psychological legacy of war”; with “its tendency to consider anger as an individual psychological problem rather than a political commentary”; and with “its usage of the language of getting back to ‘normal’” (2014:59).

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in this respect to the South African TRC, the Canadian TRC still has been designed with elements from the restorative justice approach that aims to facilitate – just like the South African TRC did – reconciliation. The Canadian TRC (hereafter called “the TRC”) was established as part of the IRSSA by Order-in-Council in June 2008. As a court order it is not liable to government and it has no subpoena power. Its five year mandate includes collecting and archiving survivor stories in order to fulfil its two overarching purposes: first “to reveal to Canadians the complex truth about the history and the ongoing legacy of the church-run residential schools” (TRC Interim Report 2012:2); and second “to guide and inspire a process of truth and healing, leading toward reconciliation […]” (TRC Interim Report 2012:2). The first commissioners were Justice Harry Laforme (chair), Claudette Dumont-Smith and Jane Brewin Morley. In what proved to be a rocky start, Justice Laforme resigned in October 2008 “stating that the Commission’s independence had been compromised by political interference, and that conflict with the other two Commissioners regarding his authority made the Commission unworkable” (TRC Interim Report 2012:2). The other two commissioners resigned a few months later and the parties to the IRSSA then selected three new commissioners: Justice Murray Sinclair (chair), Chief Wilton Littlechild and Dr. Mary Wilson. They started their work on July 1st 2009, almost a year after the TRC was established, and “faced the challenge of restarting the Commission and restoring its credibility with survivors and the Canadian public” (TRC Interim Report 2012:2). From 2009 to 2011 the TRC took part in over 400 outreach and statement gathering initiatives across the country (TRC Interim Report 2012:14-15). It also held its first three National Events, the first entitled “It’s About Respect – A Journey of Survival, Strength and Resilience” was in Winnipeg (Manitoba) in June 2010. The second took place in Inuvik (Northwest Territories) in June-July 2011 and was entitled: “It’s about Courage – A National Journey Home”. The third was in Halifax (Nova Scotia) in October 2011 and was entitled: “It’s About Love – A National Journey for Healing, Families and Reconciliation”. In 2012 the TRC issued its first (interim) report in which it deplored a lack of cooperation on behalf of the Government and the Churches in terms of providing relevant documents for its work (see TRC Interim Report 2012). The TRC’s former Director of Research and Report Writing, historian John Milloy, had also expressed frustration over document negotiations before resigning in 2010 (Curry, The Globe and Mail, July 12th 2010). Milloy continued as a Special Advisor to the Chair of the Commission until 2012, but was replaced as a Director of Research by Regan. In a 2013 article reflecting back on his work at the TRC, he writes:

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions […] when I was the lead researcher on the history of the school system for the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples on the early 90’s – before the class action suits, the Settlement Agreement, and the Prime Minister’s apology – my access to federal and church documents was more fulsome than anything we have had at the TRC in my days there. This is despite the fact that the Settlement Agreement, which is a court supervised arrangement, mandated all federal departments and the churches to produce all relevant documents. (Milloy 2013:14)

Among other things, this lack of document access has made it hard to prove the attendance of students in certain schools (because of missing records), it has made it hard to recognise certain schools as residential schools and it has made it harder for The Missing Children Project (a pre-existing project adopted by the TRC) to find the names of all the children who died in the schools, the causes for their deaths and the places where they are buried. After the publication of its interim report (2012), the TRC held four more national events and one closing event. The fourth National Event: “It’s About Truth – A National Journey for Healing and Reconciliation” was in Saskatoon (Saskatchewan) in June 2012. The fifth event: “It’s About Humility: A National Journey for Healing and Reconciliation” was in Montreal (Quebec) in April 2013. The sixth event: “It’s About Honesty – A National Journey for Healing and Reconciliation” was in Vancouver (British Columbia in September 2013. The seventh event “It’s About Wisdom – A National Journey for Healing and Reconciliation” was in Edmonton (Alberta) in March 2014. And the closing event was in Ottawa (Ontario) in May-June 2015 and was entitled “It’s Time for Reconciliation”. In its mandate and through commissioners’ speeches, the TRC provides a wide and arguably vague framework for apprehending reconciliation: it frames reconciliation as part of a healing discourse and situates it as a long-term journey toward the restoration of balance in the relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people. In its mandate (Schedule “N”), the TRC extends the work of reconciliation not only to large groups (national reconciliation between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people) but also to individuals and their families (inter-personal reconciliation), as well as their communities. The primary means it puts forward to achieve national reconciliation is education (as explained in the condensed two-minute film clip entitled “Reconciliation” by Commissioner Sinclair on the TRC website). The task of education takes on an extra meaning when the TRC is considered within its non-transitional context. Indeed, the TRC is one of three commissions that have or are taking place in

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the absence of political regime change125. Its impetus was not war or civil conflict but litigation resulting in a settlement that sets it apart from other TRCs. It means that it has not benefited from the same degree of national or international attention as have commissions in conflict-emerging countries and that it has to work actively to promote itself (Niezen and Gadoua 2014:23). Moreover, the fact that it is dealing with a largely non-recognised part of Canadian history has a major implication: it means it has to convince the general population of the truths it is uncovering (Niezen and Gadoua 2014:23). This has resulted in what Niezen (2013) describes as an essentialisation of narrative emerging from the TRC events. He claims there is a consistent pattern in the statements presented to the commissioners in the public forums (called the Commissioner’s Sharing Panel), in which emphasis is overwhelmingly placed on personalised traumas that unfolded in the schools and their continued effect in adulthood, often through addictions and parenting failures (2013:62). In his book Truth and Indignation (2013), Niezen demonstrates how the Commission encourages this master narrative through visual materials (e.g., selections of films in the compilations made available to the public online, or the images and slogans shown directly at TRC events) and cements its incontestability through the creation and repetition of sacred rituals at TRC events. He claims there is an emphasis on “the themes of loss and suffering, both within the schools and in adult lives broken by the experience, the heightened emotion of grief (but within certain bounds of self-control and composure) and, in closing narrative, a positive story of healing and rediscovery of that cultural heritage once slated for destruction through the schools” (2013:68).

Emotional tension Niezen’s findings confirm the applicability of Ure’s claim in the TRC context: despite its non-transitional feature and the lack of threats of sudden violence or retaliation in Canada, the TRC’s effort to create a master narrative that insists on suffering and healing is bound to have to shape and control the emotional expressions it encourages and discourages. In this way, the Canadian TRC is faced with the same emotional tension between its prime goals as other commissions, and its participants, the survivors, are urged to remember difficult 125 | Also non-transitional was the 1979 Greensborough Truth Commission that unfolded in North Carolina and inquired into the deaths of five anti Ku-Klux-Klan demonstrators; and since 2013 there is the ongoing Maine Wabanaki-State Child Welfare Truth and Reconciliation Commission whose mandate is to “uncover and acknowledge the truth about what happened to Wabanaki children and families involved with the Maine child welfare system” (Maine Wabanaki-State Child Welfare TRC website, last accessed November 2015: http://www.mainewabanakitrc.org/).

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

stories that were the source of great pain, to tell and to heal. As in South Africa, the Canadian TRC intimately links reconciliation to the notion of healing. But if the South African TRC attempted to erase anger through the promotion of bilateral forgiveness, the question can be posed as to whether the Canadian TRC attempts to “treat” anger through its healing discourse and symbolic practices, which implicitly suggest unilateral forgiveness126 as the way forward. Anger may not pose a threat of violence and revenge, but it tracks feelings of injustice that are incompatible with the idea of working towards a reconciled Canada.

S urvivor motivations for TRC participation When I asked Sheila why she had decided to go to the TRC event in Montreal, she answered: I wanted to tell my stories. And I was curious about what the truth and reconciliation was. I had to go and see and hear for myself, that’s why I went there. Because I’m not a very educated person so I have to actually see and hear to know what’s happening. What it’s about. If I just read it on paper I don’t understand. I choose not to I guess (laughs). But I do understand what I see. What I experience. (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve)

Ogi gwan abik’s motivations were quite different. He wanted to denounce what he articulates as the Vatican’s and the Government of Canada’s lack of accountability. As for Helen, she was not really able to say why she came, but she wanted to “check-it out”. Of the estimated eighty residential school survivors from this small Algonquin community, forty are still alive. While the regional Val d’Or event was left unattended by community members, about twenty people came for the national TRC event in Montreal in April 2013. They drove down from Rapid Lake and elsewhere. Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and Helen are from the same community but they live in three different places and have different residential school stories. Sheila went to Saint-Mary’s in Ontario with the first generation (G1, see chapter three) of children sent off to residential school, while Ogi gwan abik and Helen were sent 126 | Unilateral forgiveness has been defined by Govier as not requiring the acknowledgment or repentance on the part of the wrongdoer: “He or she may be absent or even dead, or may be present and unrepentant. When forgiveness is unilateral, the victim forgives not as a response to acknowledgment by the perpetrator but for other reasons of her own. These often include a sense that, for the victim herself, it will be best to overcome feelings of anger and resentment so as to cultivate a more constructive and healthy attitude to the world and move ahead in life” (2006:101).

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with the second generation (G2) to the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marcde-Figuery (hereafter called “Amos”, as former students refer to it as such). Sheila (G1) was schooled in English, Ogi gwan abik and Helen (G2) in French. Sheila and Ogi gwan abik went to school for many years, Helen only a few months. Despite these differences, and like for many other survivors, their stories share the common leitmotivs of abuse, constant fear, submission and anger.

The TRC and financial compensations It is for this “common experience” that they received a first IRSSA payment (the Common Experience Payment CEP) as far back as in 2008 (applications closed in 2011). As already explained in chapter seven, according to its mandate, the TRC has the duty of providing a context and meaning for the CEP through its national events (TRC Mandate, Events, 10 [c]). This constitutes an ambitious mandate to fulfil a posteriori. Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and Helen also applied for an Independent Assessment Process (IAP) for sexual and physical abuse (applications closed in September 2012). As also outlined in chapter seven, though slightly less tedious than an actual trial in court, substantial proof and legal assistance were still required to file such a claim. For all three, it was a harrowing experience of having to recollect and tell their stories to an adjudicator, of expecting an amount of money and being attributed “points” for less (different types of abuse rank according to specific points which add up to a sum of money). The process and payment did not bring about a sense of validation; rather, all three felt that the adjudicating committee did not believe parts of their stories and they were angry after their hearing. It was particularly difficult for Sheila, who after having gone through the whole ordeal, first received a letter confirming the amount she would get and then received a second letter saying she would not get anything because she had not reported the abuse at the time (see chapter seven for her story). Her failed IAP application reinforced a sense of distrust she already carried (from her abuse) and it is with this mind-frame that Sheila came to the TRC event, with deep-seated feelings of injustice and a sense of distrust. The ten survivors from the community who shared their experience of the IRSSA payments with me, as well as the many interviews I carried out with family members and people involved in community healthcare support, confirmed a general frustration with the money which was given to individuals and had no lasting constructive impact for the community. The financial compensations were of considerable influence on these survivors’ apprehension of the TRC and they received payments long before finding out about the Commission (my data shows that in 2011 most community members, including clinic staff, had not heard of the TRC). Scepticism was high after realising the “killer money” (as it was rapidly called, see chapter seven) did not go hand in

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

hand with a healing plan for the community and was, instead, often given to fragile individuals. This scepticism accompanying the allocation of financial compensations was reinforced by their legal implications (see chapter seven).

The wider context: in court over deforestation Another non-negligible factor that shaped Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors’ disposition towards the TRC was the fact that logging operations had been intensifying on their territory since the previous summer. The logging of specific family territories and the differences in opinion as in how to deal with this: protest to fully block the logging operations or try to push for a co-management (and resource revenue sharing) agreement, once again pitted community members against one another despite their common concern for the territory. It resulted in the arrest of two of Ogi gwan abik’s siblings for obstructing the logging machinery, and in a court case that involved Ogi gwan abik and his family whose territory was concerned. A few months after her release from prison, Ogi gwan abik’s sister, Diana, suffered a stroke and died, one month before the TRC event in Montreal. For Ogi gwan abik, the struggle and the arrest had put a considerable strain on his sister, and he blamed them as factors contributing to her stroke. April 24th 2013, the starting day of the Montreal national TRC event, was the court date Ogi gwan abik’s family had obtained for their hearing against Resolute Forest Products, the company clear-cutting on their territory with provincial permits. So as Ogi gwan abik headed to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel for the TRC event, members of his family were heading to court. The IRSSA payments (their legal implications, as well as the allocation timing) and the logging struggle constitute important elements of the contextual bedrock crucial to understanding these survivors’ TRC event experiences. As we will now explore, Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and Helen participated in the fifth national TRC event in three distinct ways, yet came home with the same conclusion.

F eeling good As explained in the introduction of this book, the assumption that truth telling at TRCs can have therapeutic effects has been a key argument for restorative and reparative justice advocates. Minow notably brings emotions into the comparison between retributive and reparative or restorative approaches (see introduction for definitions) by claiming that retributive approaches may reinforce anger and a sense of victimhood, while reparative (or restorative) approaches instead aim to help victims move beyond anger and a sense of powerlessness (Minow 1998:92).

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Along similar lines, Ross argues TRCs makes space for the victims’ group narrative and therefore “Truth and reconciliation matter because they validate the emotional core of individual and group memory in settings where the absence of validation was a central fact of social existence. What is addressed is the deep fear that opponents are engaged in efforts not only to threaten a group physically but also to deny their past” (2004:210). The validation of the emotional core of individual and group memory is therefore an important part of the work of TRCs, and TRC truth-telling sessions are thereby framed as enabling survivors and their families to set off on “healing journeys” that imply emotional labour and are important components of national projects of reconciliation.

Anger as an impediment to healing While the kind of normative moral imperative to dissolve anger implied by Tutu in his calls for forgiveness was not widespread at Canadian TRC events, the assumption that self-revelation is healing is ubiquitous. That anger is perceived as an impediment to healing and plays into the residential school “syndrome” trope (James 2012) was mostly implied but is also sometimes made explicit in TRC-selected films (its “highlight reels” as Niezen (2013) calls them) and as, for instance, during one of the two public open-mic discussions on reconciliation at the Montreal TRC (entitled “Ça me tient à coeur”), when a Mohawk elder spoke out in anger, saying, “(Prime Minister) Harper and all government should be hung!” and the moderator answered that violence is not the way for reconciliation, brushing the man and his tears of rage aside. The conversation had, until then, focused on the undesirability of reconciliation in the light of unresolved land and treaty issues, not on residential schools, but it was implied that the attempted identity destruction through schooling was comparable to the destruction of identity via displacement of Aboriginal Peoples off of their traditional territories and onto reserves. What the Mohawk elder was expressing and that the moderator failed to hear (and validate) was a deep ontological distress resulting from the impossibility of being, due to blockages resulting from government policies controlling the lives of Aboriginal Peoples in Canada. As chapters three, four and five already brought up, Aboriginal cultures with oral traditions are known to place emphasis on emotion regulation in ways that make the public expression of emotions rare and embedded in protocol (Brant 1990), and which includes – as has been found for instance in Cree, Inuit and Algonquin cultures – emphasis on respect and non-contradicting of elders (Ferrara 1999; Briggs 2000; Bousquet 2008). Though cultural codes of emotion and display rules evolve and change (especially when influenced by early childhood education into other cultural norms, see chapters five and six), the Mohawk elder’s public tears and visible unsettling revealed a sense of having been deeply insulted.

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

Public spaces and permissiveness at the TRC In the public places where survivors were to share their residential school stories, the atmosphere was more permissive, in the sense that speakers were not interrupted and testimonies usually succeeded one another without commentary or response on behalf of the commissioners. Grief and sorrow were the emotions that dominated throughout the testimonies, though what Niezen (2013) identified as indignation was also present. Ogi gwan abik and Sheila both reported feeling good right after speaking-out publicly. Sheila had chosen to do so in a Sharing Circle (consisting of a smaller audience and a survivor’s circle with members of the Survivors Committee) and Ogi gwan abik at the Commissioners’ Sharing Panel (consisting of a larger audience and a commissioner, in front of which the survivor testifies on stage while being broadcasted live onto the TRC website), as well as in a private statement. Helen had decided to keep quiet. Yet, though they reported feeling good, this had nothing to do with sharing their stories of abuses and being “freed” from them. Indeed, in contrast to the majority of survivors giving public testimony, neither Sheila nor Ogi gwan abik actually shared their residential school experiences with the public. In this sense, both departed from the conventional narrative template.

S pe aking out : O gi gwan abik Ogi gwan abik was the first to give testimony at the Commissioners Sharing Panel on Saturday morning. In front of a half-empty room, Commissioner Wilson opened the session with a reminder of the agreements (les ententes): survivors or intergenerational victims are to speak of their residential school experiences and their impacts, or of reconciliation. They should try to respect the fifteen-minute time frame. There is available health support for all. The tears witnesses “shed without shame” are healing (c’est de la guérison) and not garbage. Therefore, the tissues people use are not to be thrown away but collected and burnt in the sacred fire. She reminded the audience that this room is a witness of “sacred sharings” (des partages sacrés) and that the TRC is independent from the government. It is necessary, she also said, not to name an aggressor if this person has not been to court or if they are not dead. As the body of testimonies makes clear, survivors usually take this rule as an implicit ban on naming and do not name their abusers. Ogi gwan abik began his testimony by defying this no-naming rule and, though he first made clear that he would not be speaking about his personal experience, he said: “I, and many of my peers, have been raped by Frère Brochu, and he will not face justice, on the contrary he has been praised for the great work he did with

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the Indians. How can we reconcile with that?” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, April 2013, Montreal TRC National Event) For him, this no-naming rule was in direct contradiction with the TRC’s emphasis on truth telling (and on this truth telling as healing).

The UN Genocide Convention, ethnocide and cultural genocide Ogi gwan abik’s tone remained controlled and factual throughout his testimony and his posture and bodily movements composed. He called attention to the collective harm of residential school by providing examples in support of the 1948 United Nations Genocide Convention (UNGC) and reminded the audience that the declaration states that conspiracy, attempt and complicity to genocide are all deemed punishable. “I have made peace with my past,” he said. “But church and government leaders must not only recognise the wrongdoings of their agents and admit their crimes, they must also offer reparations for the genocidal actions committed against Aboriginal Peoples of Turtle Island.” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, April 2013, Montreal TRC National Event) Ogi gwan abik’s demand for the recognition of genocide has been longstanding (see Reynaud 2006) and it gains particular importance within a national political context that has not so readily accepted its colonial history (see, for instance, the ample online coverage of Prime Minister Harper’s comment that Canada has “no history of colonialism” in a statement he made on September 25th 2009 in a news conference at the end of the G20 meeting in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania). However, the interpretation of the UNGC that Ogi gwan abik relies on for his genocide argument is a matter of debate, and there is a general lack of agreement on how to define genocide among academics, domestic courts, international tribunals and victimised people (MacDonald and Hudson 2012:446). The UNGC, also known as “The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide” in the official records of the General Assembly of the United Nations of December 9th 1948, states (emphasis added): Article I – The Contracting Parties confirm that genocide, whether committed in time of peace or in time of war, is a crime under international law, which they undertake to prevent and to punish. Article II – In the present Convention, genocide means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethical, racial or religious group, as such: • Killing members of the group; • Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; • Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; • Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group; • Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

While some scholars support the genocide claim in the case of residential schools (see Grant 1996; Chrisjohn and Young 1997 or Woolford 2009), others claim the UNGC actually requires that prosecutors prove that perpetrators had a specific intent (or dolens specialis) to commit genocide; an “intent to destroy” (MacDonald and Hudson 2012). This provision makes it difficult to argue that genocide occurred over the long history of the residential school system in Canada, and it supports the idea of the more fitting definition of “cultural genocide” or “ethnocide” (MacDonald and Hudson 2012). Though scholars often use the terms interchangeably, “cultural genocide” technically refers to the cultural dimension of genocide, while the original definition of “ethnocide” is much broader and concerns the destruction in part or whole of a group according to their ethnicity (Shaw 2007:65). As explained in the book introduction, the term “ethnocide” was defined as the systematic “negation of the other” and the according destruction of its way of life by Jaulin (1970:409). This entails the destruction of living civilisations through assimilation and constitutes a form of genocide. While these distinctions are (or should be) relevant for scholars, survivors I spoke to saw the difference between “genocide” and “cultural genocide” (the term “ethnocide” is left out) as a matter of terminology rather than one of substance. Along the lines of the idea of “ethnocide”, it seems clear to them that the “negation of the other” can also be one of a death on the inside, a destruction of their ontology, their cultures, ways of life and identities. Therefore, outside the TRC, claims of “genocide” were widespread among politicised participants. On the reserve, coming back to the issue of child welfare (see previous chapter) Marcel told me: Myself as a French residential school survivor, that’s another generation. And my nephew and nieces that were threatened by the youth protection agencies. So you have all these, five generation that have been, you know, pressured in different ways by the federal government. It’s totally genocide. To keep us off the land of our community territory. I see the youth protection agency when they follow young couples they impose them to follow certain workshop that they design for them to go by. To change the way of life, to follow the imposed way of life of a non-native perception. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 57, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

Demanding justice and action At the TRC event in Montreal, Ogi gwan abik then continued with the idea that reconciliation is meaningful only if embedded in action and suggested that church member abusers be excommunicated, even if dead. He also called on the Vatican to provide all information necessary to bring individuals to justice and asked the government to recognise the traditional territories of the First

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Nations because: “The identity of my people is the land; to rid us of our territories is to rid us of our identity and our right to exist as Anishnabek” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, April 2013, Montreal TRC National Event). Ogi gwan abik’s testimony departs from the conventional testimonial template in several ways, first: in content, as I have just described he moves away from telling a story of personal suffering to addressing issues of collective justice. Second, Ogi gwan abik does not represent himself as a traumatised and emotional victim; instead he is keen on not showing grief (which as the multitude of testimonies make clear is an acceptable and almost expected TRC feeling rule) or anger in relation to personal trauma. “I have made peace with my past” he reminds his audience and, instead, calls for justice – not healing – in relation to what he identifies as historical and ongoing injustices. Ogi gwan abik’s call for justice and action is something that can be found echoed in the voices of victims of the South African apartheid who sought justice in township courts (lekgotla) outside the TRC (Wilson 2000) and, among others, in the voices of guerrilla “afectados” (the affected, as they call themselves) in Peru, who expressed the need for concrete actions (monetary and non-monetary reparatory measures or reforms, etc.) after their TRC testimonies (Laplante et Theidon 2007). Ogi gwan abik had invited a Catholic priest who was attending the Commission to witness his testimony. Three months after the TRC event, he told me he was still waiting to hear back from this priest, and that if no action was taken “to wake-up and do something,” this made him an accomplice.

Def ying the TRC template According to Minow, restorative justice emphasises the humanity of both offenders and victims: “It seeks repair of social connections and peace rather than retribution against the offenders. Building connections and enhancing communication between perpetrators and those they victimized, and forging ties across the community, takes precedence over punishment or law enforcement” (1998:92). Minow’s claim, coupled with Ogi gwan abik’s wish to have someone standing in for his perpetrator (and, thereby, the Catholic Church), reveals how, at the Canadian TRC, the task of healing and reconciliation rests disproportionately on the shoulders of survivors and their families. They are expected to repair social connections within their families and communities, but the possibility of doing so with perpetrators, the non-Aboriginal population and the government remains abstract: there are no “perpetrators” at the TRC. As Niezen (2013) shows, the absence of the government is silently accepted and the indignant churches mostly contest taking on the full blame. Hence, unilateral forgiveness through healing of the self is implicitly proposed as “the way forward.”

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

Transporting the feeling rules of tribunal and court settings that discourage the display of anguish and trauma to favour emotional control and cool rationality (Flam 2013:377), and which Ogi gwan abik is more than familiar with as he has been in and out of court for the last decade over logging issues, Ogi gwan abik uses the space of the TRC to question and contest this very way of addressing the legacy of residential schools and the system they were a part of. To be able to do this, therefore revealing the permissiveness of the TRC unfoldings, initially felt good for Ogi gwan abik. He did not censor himself nor follow the TRC narrative template and feeling rules, and this had no consequences.

S pe aking - out : S heil a Unlike Ogi gwan abik, Sheila provided the broad lines of her residential school experience. She did so in a smaller setting, the Sharing Circle, which was less intimidating to her than the Commissioners’ Sharing Panel. Yet she also stayed away from her personal story of abuse and from the implicit feeling rule of exposing grief and sorrow. Instead, Sheila reported feeling good at having expressed her anger in both tone and content: I forgave my grandmother (for sending me to school) but I won’t forgive the government. There’s no way in hell. The TRC is bullshit to me. I’m going to court to protect the land. I can’t go back in the bush anymore because they put in an injunction. This is why it’s a lot of bullshit with the government and the apology. Where is he? I will never believe that… I’m still fighting for something that I believe in, the animals, the trees, the water – it comes from my heart. They destroyed my mind but not my heart. (Sheila, 67, April 2013, Montreal national TRC event)

Sheila felt good because she expressed her anger and was not rebuffed in her emotions like the Mohawk elder in the reconciliation discussion panel. The circle context enabled Sheila to express her anger, what she probably would not have dared to do at the Commissioner’s Sharing Panel. Three months later she told me: “Well it made me angry when I was talking about it, but I felt good. And I wasn’t holding back because it’s the truth. It’s exactly how I feel. The words that I used, that’s exactly… I choose to use the words that I used. And I was mad. I was mad from the inside. And as of today, too, I still feel the same way” (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve [VWR]). For Sheila to be able to recognise her anger and express it is something she has recently learned from a trauma workshop organised by the community’s wellness councillor: “’Cause for me, I went to a trauma session. So it did help

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me understand about myself, no matter what I see today. Sure I’m angry, I’m angry more then I ever was but I let it come out now. I don’t hide anything” (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR). For Sheila, who was socialised into Algonquin feeling rules before going to residential school, Algonquin cultural codes of emotions can be seen as an influencing factor in the regulation of an emotion like anger. As chapter three put forward, traditionally, and to some extent still today, emphasis was put on emotional control of emotions like anger (Bousquet 2009:59). Another emotion-regulating factor can be related to the experience of sexual abuse as a child, which trauma scholars have linked with lasting emotions of shame due, partly, to the child having believed she deserved the abuse. For Sheila to be able to be angry and to allow herself to understand why, is something that the trauma workshop has enabled her to do and that she feels good about; as for many others, speaking out is self-affirming and important. But, as she made clear, Sheila differentiates the anger she holds (or held) in relation to specific individuals like her grandmother, and their actions, and the anger she holds towards systemic institutionalised injustice. She does not want to “treat” this latter anger for the sake of healing and reconciliation.

K eeping quie t : H elen Sheila and Ogi gwan abik were therefore atypical participants at the Montreal TRC event; both departed from the expected narrative template and its implied feeling rules. In so doing, they did not enable the subtle slippage between personalised stories of suffering and healing, where healing the self becomes symbolic for healing the nation (see Hamber and Wilson 2002 for a critique of the assumption of a national psyche that can be healed via a TRC). Yet, though their public participation shows how the TRC provides space for contestation, Helen’s lack of participation is a reminder that Ogi gwan abik and Sheila were exceptions to the rule. Effectively, and to the other extreme, Helen did not feel she could share her story in public and also did not want to give a private testimony after her unsettling IAP experience, where she afterwards had felt alone in her reawakened pain. Despite the hefty consequences her short residential school experience had on the rest of her life (including the fact that she was never able to bring herself to study again, despite having a deep desire to obtain formal instruction), Helen did not feel her suffering was as legitimate as the others who had been to residential school for longer periods. So, she went to the TRC event, but stayed on its outskirts, not finding a place for her story within the narrative template. She did not go home with much disappointment she told me, as she had come with low expectations. She had also come wary of emotional expo-

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

sure, the fear of another post-IAP breakdown being too real. Several months later, her understanding was that the TRC “didn’t really do anything.”

The double bind Interviews carried out three months after the TRC with Sheila and Ogi gwan abik revealed that the immediate “feeling good” after their public statement did not last. Frustration and anger, which had been there all along (also for Sheila when “feeling good”), were strong, and “bullshit” and “expensive Band-Aid” were the qualifiers used to retroactively make sense of the TRC. The underlying distrust they came to the TRC with, reinforced by the IRSSA payments and the logging, was still strong. Ogi gwan abik felt angry about the Church’s lack of recognition, and Sheila felt angry at the idea that she should not feel anger; in this sense, both rejected “healing and reconciliation” as put forward by the TRC. Scholars have argued there is little evidence that testifying at TRCs actually helps victims in any way (Mendeloff 2009:615; Flam 2013:378). For instance, empirical research with South African apartheid victims has shown that many found the TRC process painful, disempowering and disappointingly filled with unmet expectations and promises (Byrne 2004). Going even further, Karen Brounéus’ 2008 research in post-genocide Rwanda showed how survivors can also be harmed by testifying in public: the women she interviewed who testified in the gacaca village tribunals (initiated to enhance reconciliation) not only experienced intense psychological suffering but also were faced with new threats of violence by perpetrators still alive and upset with the public disclosures. While recognising that victims’ responses to truth telling are highly individualised and idiosyncratic, Mendeloff’s review of the few existing TRC-related empirical studies concludes “there is very little definitive evidence that supports the assumption of truth-telling’s psychological benefit. What little we do know casts doubt on that claim” (2009:616). Mendeloff further mentions the evidence of victims’ diverging opinions when it comes to the question of whether justice has been served, and asks: “Is victim dissatisfaction with the truth-telling process the result of faulty truth-telling institutions or is dissatisfaction inherent to the search for justice after mass atrocity?” (2009:622).

Perceiving justice and emotions: a clash of perspectives Sheila and Ogi gwan abik’s experiences add complexity to “Ure’s tension” in several ways that are important to consider in the light of this question. Ogi gwan abik’s call for justice reflects the style of upbringing the residential schools endorsed, one that called for punishment as a norm and that was at odds with Algonquin traditional education (see chapter six). In his statement,

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he said: “These people should be pursued in an international court of law, as groups and as individuals” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, April 2013, Montreal TRC National Event). This directly clashes with the TRC’s restorative approach, which is said to resonate with Aboriginal conceptions of justice (Ross 1996, 2004; Llewellyn 2002, 2008). According to this view, retributive justice is based in western principles that are incompatible with Aboriginal ways of thinking and feeling. By constantly reminding the audience that it is a “survivor initiative”, the TRC implicitly de-legitimises emotions related to injustice (like anger) felt by some of its participants, such as Sheila. It throws back the responsibility of “healing and reconciliation” to survivors, by grouping them together as “the survivors” who initiated the process in its restorative format, whereas Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families actually felt excluded from the IRSSA design and implementation process. As the previous chapter showed, in their view the legal implications behind the financial compensations, among other factors, discredited the settlement and its (much later) TRC. Sheila and Ogi gwan abik’s TRC-related emotions reveal that survivors are emotionally bilingual (in the sense that they are familiar with both Algonquin and Canadian feeling rules) and that they do not exist as a unified group.

TRC symbolics and ritual Ross reminds us “because of the political complexity surrounding the use of apology and reparations, acknowledgment may be an especially useful mechanism for achieving at least partial reconciliation, and ritual and symbolic action can be crucial in the dynamics of acknowledgment” (2004:210). In this light, it seems important to examine some of the ritual and symbolic actions that unfolded at the Montreal TRC event. In fact, Sheila and Ogi gwan abik’s participative contestation also reveals the way the TRC itself tries to negotiate “Ure’s tension” by making use of symbolics and ritual. “The mere fact that we’re in the Queen Elizabeth Hotel makes me feel like they’re laughing at us.” Ogi gwan abik continued: “The Church and the Crown are the two major actors to blame for the genocidal actions committed against my people” (Ogi gwan abik, 55, April 2013, Montreal TRC National Event). Although Ogi gwan abik might be the only survivor who brought in the role of the Crown in treaty relationships with Aboriginal Peoples in his TRC testimony at the Montreal event, the numerous survivors who came to thank him for what he said point to the possibility that he was not the only one made uncomfortable by the site name and what was interpreted by some as symbolic perpetrator control at the TRC. A prime example by Sheila was her interpretation of the Bentwood Box, commissioned by the TRC and carved by Coast Salish artist Luke Marston.

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

Figure 16: The Bentwood Box at the Montreal National TRC Event Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013

Brought to all TRC national events, the box is meant to reflect the strength and resilience of residential school survivors and their descendants, honour the survivors who died, and receive offerings that commemorate personal journeys towards healing and reconciliation (TRC Newsletter, Spring 2009). As Niezen shows, the box’s repository function (of material testimony, books, documents, DVDs etc.) has taken on a sacred dimension, and the box acts as a ritual vessel that connects commissioners with participants (2013:66). It is with great reverence that things get put in the box, and its meaning (the story of the carver’s grandmother featured on the box, a story of suffering with lasting effects) is retold at each event before the first “offering” is made in what Niezen coins a “ritual of deposition” (2013:67). For Sheila, the box embodied a subtle way of exerting control through ritual: “I don’t believe in it,” she said. “Everything the people had to say, they put it in that box. Did you see that box? It had tears coming down on it. And they put everything in that box. And they’re going to seal it now.” (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR)

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Niezen argues that, while drawing attention to the box’s meaning, the ritual of deposition also “brackets the testimony within a kind of ontological invulnerability. There can be no contestation of opinion, no alternative historical narrative with any broad power of persuasion when it runs up against the perceived infallibility of sacralized truth” (2013:67). Sheila’s tone and words revealed both her anger and her fear: all those emotions that had finally started coming out after years of being “boxed-in” could very well be sacralised as truth, but Sheila feared they would also be sealed away for ever.

B ack home The TRC exhibits the place of emotional tensions described by Ure (2008): on the one hand, encouraging emotions, such as anger, resulting from suffering and injustice and, on the other hand, expecting people to “move on” or, at least, control themselves. Indeed Ogi gwan abik, Helen and Sheila’s somewhat unconventional participation revealed that if “the struggle to feel” is viewed as paramount in the regeneration of selves and communities (Million 2009) and TRCs provide a place for that, they also are very controlled, non-lasting places.

Dealing with “Ure’s tension” Ogi gwan abik and Sheila dealt with “Ure’s tension” via emotional transgressions of either not showing expected emotions (Ogi gwan abik) or of showing emotions like anger, which trespassed TRC feeling rules (and, for Helen, with a lack of availability to emotions). Their distinct participation styles at the Montreal TRC remind us that the past is a site of struggle, not condensable into one “essentialized” story that the TRC tries to affirm (Niezen 2013). Ogi gwan abik’s wish to have a representative church member present at his public testimony, and his frustration in not knowing whether this had prompted this person to action after, points to the fact that the Canadian TRC partially fails to fully provide the “process of dialogue with one’s former enemies” described by Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela (former coordinator of the South African TRC public hearings) as an inherent feature of truth commissions (2008:335). To recognise the TRC as a site of narrative and emotional struggle acknowledges that there are a variety of emotions at work. These emotions in turn are the communicating agents of “healing and reconciliation” and remind us that, for some survivors, reconciliation in this way is not desirable and anger is legitimate.

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions

Following Martha Nussbaum’s understanding of anger as underscoring as well as manifesting our shared vulnerability to suffering (2001, 2004), Muldoon argues that […] anger should not be regarded as something antithethical to the cultivation of humanity which should be eradicated at any cost […]. To become indifferent to the worldly attachments that lead to anger would be to simultaneously take away the basis for compassion and this, perhaps more certainly than any of the excesses of anger, would certainly put an end to the hope of reconciliation. (2008:310)

Not only does Muldoon’s argument rehabilitate Sheila’s anger, but also it calls for attention to how important it is in the wake of reconciliation projects. While many scholars argue that when fear and anger remain unacknowledged and unaddressed, they can easily recreate a culture of anxiety and resentment (Hutchison and Bleiker 2008:391), Muldoon further cautions against this presumption that anger necessarily descends into resentment and revenge: “It is possible to be angry without succumbing to a violent rage that wreaks havoc in an entirely disproportionate and indiscriminate fashion” (2008:309). Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and most other survivors I spoke to from the community described being angry, but at the TRC none voiced a desire of vengeance against their abusers or against the government. They mostly demanded land restitution and control and to “be left in peace”. Yet this “being left in peace” was not articulated as a desire to ostracise anyone (which could have made more sense than a desire for revenge, as ostracism was a traditional Algonquin conflict resolution tool, see Bousquet 2009:58) but more out of a sense of wariness and out of desire to control their own internal community affairs.

Constructive anger and Kokom’s camp For Sheila and Ogi gwan abik, going home angry did not get fuelled into revenge and resentment but into an “Idle no More” initiative prompted by youths, who called upon the “Traditional Council of Grandmothers”, which Sheila is a member of, to visit all the Algonquin communities in Quebec and speak to as many grandmothers as possible to work toward unity within and among the various communities (the Algonquins are divided between two tribal councils): “And this is what we were working on with the grandmother talk,” Sheila explained. “We have to unite as one to stand and fight as one. Protect the Mother Earth there from all this destruction that’s going on. And to stand up to the government and say enough is enough.” (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR)

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Figure 17: The kokoms protesting against logging in the VWR Photo courtesy of Shannon Chief, 2014

These community visits resulted in seven grandmothers (kokoms) from various Algonquin communities coming together to organise the first bush camp specifically for Algonquin youth in July 2013. Children and teenagers camped-out together in the bush for several days, and elders (including Ogi gwan abik) shared spiritual teachings and stories, following the seven “grandfathers”: courage, wisdom, respect, love, honesty, truth and humility (also used in the TRC event titles). On the day of the teaching on truth, Sheila brought her carved staff to the sacred fire where the teaching would take place. After we had all purified with smoke, she explained the story behind her staff and what was on it. She showed us a red ribbon tied to the top, which was there to remember residential school and had been given to her at the Montreal TRC event. There was no anger in her voice as she continued, by stressing the importance of unity among Algonquin people and how this was about doing things together in the bush. “Because everything is in the bush and you have to teach the kids. This is why we brought them here. To do that,” she later told me. They destroyed the people, their self-esteem. So let them [youth] get back their inner spirit, and this is where it is. It’s in the bush, it’s in the territories, where they all have their skill. Everything is in the bush. This is where our language is. This is where our culture is. Everything. It’s in the bush. This is why they’re doing this. They’re cutting

Chapter 8 – At the TRC: Dealing with Difficult Emotions up the trees now. They’re going to do mining. They put dams up. They’re going to destroy everything that Mother Earth provides. And this is where we do our survival. This is where our teaching are, everything. A lot of things are in the bush to teach the children today. This is why we’re doing what we’re doing now. Nobody’s recognising that and certainly not the government. (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR)

As the next chapter explores in more depth, “Kokom’s camp” and the new offer of trauma workshops for Mitchikanobikok Inik survivors and their families via the reserve clinic constitute important healing spaces outside the TRC. They are locally understood as mino mamwi sewin (gathering with good intent), which is also how Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and Helen translate “reconciliation” into their language. This chapter showed that the Canadian TRC tries to resolve Ure’s tension by discouraging anger, and it also revealed that there could be space for anger at TRC events without it becoming problematic. Sheila, Ogi gwan abik and Helen provided us with three examples of distinct yet similar (in their non-conventionality) ways of participating in the TRC. By refusing to abide by TRC feeling rules, their participation highlights what Ure described as a fundamental emotional tension inherent to TRC projects. Via emotional transgressions, Sheila and Ogi gwan abik contested, in their own ways, “healing and reconciliation” as proposed by the TRC. Following Muldoon, this chapter outlined that survivors’ anger has legitimacy and points to the need for dialogue when it comes to the scope of justice in dealing with residential schools and the system they were a part of. The way Ogi gwan abik and Sheila dealt with their emotions reflects their desire to move away from a strictly interpersonal approach to reconciliation and points to outstanding structural issues. It also underlines the way the TRC tends to depoliticise the past by turning it into a health issue. Yet the frustration and anger these participants came to the TRC with and took back home did not translate into revenge. Using the same seven “grandfathers” as the TRC events, Kokom’s camp serves as an example of the work being done away from the eyes of the Commission in the hope of fostering healing via cultural affirmation and, most importantly, of fostering unity in order to obtain recognition from the Canadian government.

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“There’ve been different steps, the prime minister’s apology, the compensations, now there’s the Commission. For real I don’t think it’s reconciled the Canadian population with its Aboriginals. I think it’ll still take a generation or two and I think that if they really respect what they said they’ll do, like changing the history books, it can’t just be for those who are already initiated.” (My translation, Martine, 45, July 2013, Rapid Lake Clinic) When she told me this, Martine and I were just discussing the transcription of an interview she had given me two years before. Since then, she had participated in the Montreal national TRC event as a support worker and described the five-day training she got there as a “grand moment dans ma vie” (a big moment in my life). Martine claimed the TRC training helped her understand a lot of things that she has seen working as a nurse during the last seven years in the community. She described it as a transformative experience that made her a more compassionate person. “I even told myself that this training should be mandatory for all those who work with Aboriginals, at least you know, since it can’t be for the whole population.” (My translation, Martine, 45, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic) This hopeful outlook reveals a very different take on the national Montreal TRC event from what was put forward in the last chapter. However, Martine’s “outsider” perspective on this IRSSA measure (which she knew nothing of in 2011) was indeed that of an “initiated” person with an interest and long-term experience working in Aboriginal communities. At the local level, “initiated” Canadians or Québécois working in the professional sector outside the clinic (for instance in education or in the tourism industry active on the territory) were exceptions to the rule. As described in chapter two, though there is a pocket of people who describes itself as “initiated” or “in solidarity” with the community, these individuals are almost exclusively linked to community members via solidarity groups or through more personal relationships. Therefore Martine’s experience is not representative, though it is important as it underlines a potential for positive change. As she put it: “Some people came to the TRC but I think it was all people who were already interested, already converted if you wish” (My translation, Martine, 45, July 2013, Rapid Lake Clinic).

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This highlights the importance of exploring the perspectives of those who are not “converted” at the local level and brings this chapter to ask: How did the Québécois, the Canadians and other “outsiders” involved in the everyday lives of the Mitchikanibikok Inik respond to the IRSSA financial compensations and the TRC? What emotions are shaped in the space (“contact zone”) opened by the IRSSA between Mitchikanibikok Inik and others at the local level? What do these emotions do? In order to assess the implications of these responses with regards to the attempted process of reconciliation promoted by the IRSSA, I discuss how the settlement measures connect (or not) to socio-emotional reconciliation as understood by Nadler (2003). Nadler claims the emotional barriers (which include emotions associated with victimisation as well as feelings of distrust) between rivals are what need to be worked on and removed in order to transform relationships in a positive direction. He calls this socio-emotional reconciliation (Nadler 2003, 2012; Nadler and Saguy 2004). Though this claim was made in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it has relevant implications when considering the Residential School emotional legacy in relation to the attempted reconciliation process. By acknowledging the key role emotions play in constructing relationships at all levels of reconciliation (Govier and Verwoerd 2002), Nadler’s claim draws attention to the fact that reconciliation cannot be approached as a one-sided process. It is a reminder of the importance of scrutinising not only survivor emotions, but also “the settler problem” (Epp 2003; Simon 2008; Regan 2010) and the emotions elicited by the IRSSA measures at the local level outside the official spaces set up by the IRSSA. Drawing from twenty-four interviews collected with twenty Canadians, Québécois and other “outsiders”, in addition to the data collected with twenty-two Mitchikanibikok Inik participants, I contend that not only is the reconciliatory agency of the IRSSA extremely low, but also that Nadler’s claim raises questions of adequacy and application in relation to the settlement plan that was opted for, at least with regards to this community. This constitutes a part of the backdrop for Mitchikanibikok Inik seeking external healing strategies (to the IRSSA). The second half of this chapter therefore explores healing or “feeling better” as it connects to solidarity movements, Mitchikanibikok Inik discourse and local practice. This chapter first explores “outsider” emotions and IRSSA-related perspectives at the local level. Second, it places those within a wider context and considers ongoing cross-cultural tensions and conflicts as well as, in a third section, the issue of co-identification for Québécois participants. A fourth section examines the implications of this local situation on socio-emotional reconciliation as defined by Nadler (2003) and suggests that trust-based and structural reconciliation would be necessary prerequisites in this case. Towards that effect, a

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

fifth section explores the trust building agency of cross-cultural solidarity and protest initiatives at the local level and how they can also contribute to collective healing and social repair through identity affirmation and cultural revival for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. A sixth section examines Mitchikanibikok Inik discourse and initiatives towards “feeling better”. A last section looks at how these connect to mino mamwi sewin – the Mitchikanibikok Inik concept that was described to me as coming closest to “reconciliation” and that literally translates as “gathering in a good way, with good intent”.

“O utsider ” perspectives and emotions shaped by the IRSSA at the local le vel As chapter seven put forward, Mitchikanibikok Inik emotions (mainly anger and anxiety) elicited by the financial compensation reveal a deep-seated distrust and a sense of self that identifies more with resistance than with victimisation. The financial compensations were allocated to Mitchikanibikok Inik individuals in their community surroundings, far from the official spaces that would later be established via the TRC (see chapter eight). In this context, it seems essential to seek an understanding of the way the national reconciliation discourse applies at the local level and how it relates to wider processes. Regan (2010) posits emotions and emotion work at the heart of her “unsettling pedagogy” and reminds us that reconciliation is not just about Aboriginal Peoples’ healing and reconciliation. This is an important argument in the light of the 2008 national benchmark survey for IRSRC and the TRC which found that the most commonly perceived meanings of reconciliation by Canadians were: “closure/forgiveness or ‘moving on’ (16%), Awareness/understanding of the issue (15%), improving relations between Aboriginal people and other Canadians (15%), or making amends/apologizing (15%)” (Environics 2008:33). Though such national surveys always run the risk of generalising opinions, these results do point to the risk of reconciliation as being a one-sided process in the sense that closure or forgiveness is what Aboriginal people have to reach in order to “move on”. As Regan and others have argued, this would enable Canadians to sit outside the process of reconciliation, safe and unaccountable. They might also feel sorry or angry but they will stay confused at what they are supposed to do with the stories and feelings engendered by the TRC testimonies. Though better than nothing, feelings of pity, anger or outrage still enable non-Aboriginals to sit outside the relationships of injustice (Simon 2008). As the introduction pointed-out, Nadler’s theory of socio-emotional reconciliation takes into account this key fact that reconciliation is a two-way process. He claims it is the negative emotions that circulate in the space between rivals that need to be worked on, especially those that fuel distrust and victimisation.

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“Outsiders” This is why the next three subparts reveal and analyse the perspectives and emotions that locally based or involved Canadians, Québécois or other First Nations and Métis participants, perceived as “outsiders” by Mitchikanibikok Inik members, shared with regards to the financial compensations and the TRC. As chapter two already outlined, the twenty respondents who are not on the band list stand in diverse rapports with community members. These “outsiders” live and/or work or carry out solidarity activities on the territory and usually identified as Canadians (Anglophone), Québécois (Francophone), First Nations from other communities, or as Métis. About half of these participants describe themselves as “in solidarity” with community members. About half of these participants describe themselves as “in solidarity” with community members; they were “initiated” or “converted” as described by Martine in the introduction. This means that they are interested and usually quite informed about the challenges faced by First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples in Canada, and they are sometimes involved in trying to find strategies to address some of these challenges. The big majority of these ‘solidarity people’ do not live in the area and are mostly either linked to community members on reserve via a Toronto and Montreal-based solidarity group against the Indian Act (called Barriere Lake Solidarity), or they are linked to off reserve community members via anti-logging forest gatherings, spiritual get-togethers or through more personal relationships. They are all committed citizens in the sense of socio-political activism and/or support and they do not have professional or business connections with community members. For this reason, they are neither representative of the local Québécois nor the out of province Canadians working or living in the area who constitute the rest of the interviewees (nine people). Of this handful of people who work and/or live in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve (VWR) area or Rapid Lake, there are four Québécois clinic staff members, three teachers (Canadians but not Quebecers) who work at the Rapid Lake School, and three spouses/partners that I am aware of. The latter, spouses or partners of band list members, self-identified as “in solidarity” Québécois or Canadians and were the only ones who live all year-round on the territory. The reason for this being that Sépaq (“Société des établissements de plein air du Québec”: the governmental agency that operates in the wildlife reserve (see chapter two) and the private outfitter businesses are closed from the end of September to early May, and that the school and the clinic hire people who have other home bases and divide their time between Rapid Lake and home. Still, these are the people who are, geographically speaking, in closest proximity to the Mitchikanibikok Inik population. Besides these professionals who are based almost full time (teachers, health workers) or part-time (tourism industry workers) on the territory, there are of course other people who gravitate in

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

and out of the community for various reasons. One such person is the lawyer I interviewed twice who has worked with both on and off reserve community members in litigation and in link to the IRSSA financial compensations. The next subsection explores the IRSSA-related perspectives and emotions shared by tourism industry workers who live and/or work part time or almost full time in the Verendrye area.

Perspectives from local businesses: “Money burns a hole in their pockets” What clearly emerges from the interviews with the off reserve Québécois population living and working for half of the year in the Verendrye area, not taking into account the solidarity portion of the people who are band member spouses or partners, is that they have, for the most part, tense and/or distrustful relationships with the community as a whole. The owners of one of the five private fishing and hunting lodges in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve127, first reluctant to speak to me, eventually described their relationship with the community as: “Well it’s rather cold. We can’t say that we could be friends with them. They’re racist.” Jean said, and he continued “It’s the same for all the white people around here, we all know each other” (my translation, Jean, 50, August 2011, VWR). Valérie, his wife, told me: “We have to be careful, and we have to be careful with what we say because they’re more racist than we are.” As they are located close to Rapid Lake, Jean and Valérie have regular contact with community members who come to buy gas, chips and soft drinks from their mini-dépanneur (a very small convenience store) and who sometimes also ask to buy eggs, bacon and bread directly from the lodge kitchen. They occasionally hire a few people (five) from the reserve who work as fishing guides for them, a practice that was already in place when they bought the business seven years ago. Describing their relationships with these guides, Jean told me that these were the few reserve people with whom the relations are good, “but they’re just business relations there not friendships” he said. Witnessing their interaction with one of these guides, I wrote in my fieldnotes: Yesterday as I sat with Jean doing an interview on the outside deck of their cafeteria with a view on the lake, arrived Gabriel, “one who’s ok.” I was told (they sometimes hire him as a guide). Long hair, front teeth missing, Gabriel climbed the few steps to the deck and 127 | Note that the five outfitter businesses that existed prior to the creation of the wildlife reserve have the right to continue running their hunting and fishing commercial activities parallel to Sépaq and in accordance to provincial regulations. The aforementioned owners, Jean and Valérie, recently sold their fishing business.

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Emotions, Remembering and Feeling Better Valérie came out of the kitchen towards him. He told her he’d like to buy gas. Without a smile and in her abrupt way, she held out her hand for money. He started laughing, half amused and half embarrassed in front of Jean and I who sat watching, and handed over some bills to pay for the overpriced gas. She went into the house and come out with some change, then went down the steps to give him what he had bought. If this is how someone who works for them is treated, I wonder about the others. I would have been so humiliated to be asked for money upfront like that. It’s condescending. (Fieldnotes, August 20 th 2011, notebook 2011:129)

Though it is legitimate to wonder if another option was open to Jean and Valérie if people take off without paying, the situation clearly illustrates how the lack of respect and tact with which the interaction was handled plays into local dynamics of distrust. For the couple, these dynamics are no longer fuelled by past frustration and anger at theft or vandalism of their property, but rather by what those initial emotions morphed into over the years: a certain indifferent and fatalistic view of the future. In other words, an outlook that does not include a shared future with their “Indian” neighbours. Indeed, Jean’s perspective was that the relationship of mutual distrust will never get better, that he saw no hope for improvement. Valérie linked the theft problems they had experienced, and the current social and political problems on the reserve, to drug and alcohol issues. She described how when they bought the fishing lodge business they were not aware it would be this bad but quickly realised they would have to adapt. For instance, when they leave for the winter months, all the cabins (twenty-one cabins, 160 beds) are entirely emptied. Dishes, mattresses, pillows, moveable furniture etc. are all locked into a very secure nearby storage shed. Only bed frames remain and the cabin doors are left open so that they do not get broken into. The glass windows are protected with wood. As a rule of thumb, Jean and Valérie do not sell cigarettes or alcohol (and do not have the licence to do so) and ask their guests to bring their own drinks and keep their belongings off the cabin decks at night. Valérie’s perspective was that she and her husband take better care of the territory than the people in the community, that they keep their lodge grounds cleaner and that people on reserve are unable to administer themselves or take care of their children who are “constantly roaming around”. Claiming she had nothing to hide, Valérie compared the adults living on reserve to children. According to her, community members are unable to deal with money: “l’argent leur brûle le fond des poches” (money burns a hole in their pockets) she said, “it has to come out! And there’s a big problem with alcohol. And with drugs” (My translation, Valérie, 50, August 2011, VWR). When I asked her husband about the root causes of the current social problems on the reserve, he sighed and answered, “I don’t know. It’s because they don’t want to integrate, integrate modern life. They don’t want to work; in general, they don’t want to work. All

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

they wait for are government cheques, and then they drink when they have the money.” Jean and Valérie were aware of the IRSSA financial compensations in 2011, not thanks to the media they explained, but because customers (community members) told them they were receiving money. They knew it was related to “bad treatments” in residential schools and disagreed with the way the money was being administered. “I wouldn’t have done it that way. It would have been better to give people a regular pension. To give big amounts like that, it changes nothing. In their lives.” (My translation, Jean, 50, August 2011, VWR) Their opinion on the IRSSA and the perspective of reconciliation between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people was that: “It doesn’t work. Nothing changes. They don’t really appreciate it” (My translation, Jean, 50, August 2011, VWR). “You see it as coming from them, then?” I asked. “Yes” he answered, “We see them act, and you know, it doesn’t change their lives, besides as I said, making them rich for a short amount of time, but not long. And no they don’t appreciate, they don’t like the whites any better for it.” Jean and Valérie’s views reflect a visible cleavage at the local level where Mitchikanibikok Inik are largely excluded from privately run outfitter as well as Sépaq related activities (and their economic gain) in the area. As this chapter later develops, interviews and inappropriate provocations I experienced because I was labelled as working with “them” the “Indians” from Sépaq administration members, confirmed this.

Perspectives from healthcare: “A check and no framework” Those directly working on the reserve (clinic staff members and teachers) had a more nuanced way of describing their relationships with community members, and a broader understanding of the reasons behind the issues. Though they described their attachment to people and to their work, they also spoke about the difficulty of establishing trust-based relationships, or of establishing relationships at all. Their perspective on the IRSSA was similar to that of survivors, and in this sense their understanding of the situation today was informed by their direct local experience. They ascribed social difficulties as linked to a lack of human resources, a lack of infrastructure and space (overcrowded homes), low education and reduced economic possibilities. The Québécois clinic staff also described the structural limitations imposed by external administrative decisions that isolated them within the community (work schedules, reduced personnel etc.). Easy to approach and showing evidence of a great deal of flexibility, clinic staff members readily shared that the “hot” moments for them were whenever there was a flow of money into the community, which of course meant that for them the IRSSA financial com-

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pensations did not go by unnoticed. One nurse with over twenty years of experience working and/or living in various Aboriginal communities, said to me: Honestly as a nurse what we see here, when money arrives, is that we ask ourselves how long it’ll take. To drink it all. I’ve seen large amounts arriving and it was horrifying. There’s no framework coming with the money. […] It’s almost like nobody cared: “Come on let’s give them money and get rid of this”. Sure there’s a form of recognition of what happened, but at the same time, I mean these people were given no tools for all these years and then you just give them a cheque and no framework! (My translation, Isabelle, 50, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

In 2011 the Québécois clinic staff was largely uninformed about the IRSSA. They knew about the compensations from having witnessed the money inflows, and some had vaguely heard of the TRC, but they had not been officially approached or informed as health care professionals about the various settlement measures and the way some of those may trigger physical and mental health issues. Though one nurse said he helped a few survivors file their CEP applications and that the clinic provided patients with their medical files when required (as proof for IAP damages), nothing had been put in place to support survivors at the clinic. Still, those working at the clinic were in their own ways “in solidarity” with survivors in the sense that their commitment to providing fair and adequate health services to all was obvious. They described an atmosphere of general distrust in the community, maintained by a climate of fear that was chiefly connected to politics. Therefore working in what they described as a tense context (and in a community in which violence has become a normal part of life), the dedication required to persevere revealed their intent of solidarity. One clinic staff member suggested the money should have been allocated in a more organised and creative way. Ideas like a youth cinema club, better support for pregnant women or other long-lasting community activities that could have contributed to reducing boredom and increase well-being were suggested. Aware and “not proud” of the history of assimilation and control of Aboriginal Peoples, they sometimes express shame in relation “to what their grandparents and great-grandparents had done”. They also described the difficulty of assuming their roles as professional health caregivers within this legacy: “When you know the situation of Aboriginal Peoples and their history, you know we have responsibilities. You can’t be paternalist, but at the same time you can’t throw everything away [this is in part an allusion to an earlier part of the conversation we were having on the Indian Health Transfer Policy] and say to people who are sometimes fragile: organise yourselves” (my translation, Martine, 45, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic).

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

Perspectives from education: fear of paternalism The fear of paternalism was also reflected in the interviews I carried out with two teachers; Rose who had worked in Rapid Lake for two years in the early 1990s, and Lena who has been working there for the past four years. Both Anglophone Canadians, they described as having had (or still having in Lena’s case) very good connections with the children, and little if any connection with the parents. When I interviewed her in 2011 at home in Ontario, Rose was involved with Project of Heart, an initiative supported by the TRC that seeks to educate Canadian children about Aboriginal history in Canada and inspire respectful relationship building between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people128. With her class of grade six students, she was commemorating the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos) by getting them to reflect on what residential school could have felt like for these children and by making commemorative tiles. It was the second time she was doing this, and the first batch of tiles she had made with students to commemorate another school had already travelled to the first TRC event in Winnipeg (2010). When I asked if she had been in contact with the community about this or if she had plans to gift these tiles to Amos survivors, on the one hand she expressed sadness that she had not done this and thought that it would be a good idea, and on the other hand she also said “I guess sometimes I feel like our tiles are the tiles of white people […] I guess I’m always afraid of imposing my idea of what their healing should be like” (Rose, 52, August 2011, at her home). She had very good memories of having worked in Rapid Lake as well as mixed feelings about her experience, which she also described as lonely and frustrating: “I saw tons and tons of problems that for me became really clear that I couldn’t do very much about, it really had to come from them” (Rose, 52, August 2011, at her home). Among others, the internal political divisions and the troubles the school had in bridging with those in support of a more informal “life skills” education. This seems to be less of an issue today as the school has local teaching assistants and some teachers, like Lena, organise bush outings with the children and community members. However, Lena underlined other challenges in the domain of formal 128 | On its website, Project of Heart describes itself as “an inquiry based, hands-on, collaborative, inter-generational, artistic journey of seeking truth about the history of Aboriginal people in Canada”. Its vision is to: “expand the opportunities available for the wisdom of Aboriginal Elders to be heard, recognized and honored; change attitudes and behaviors – hearts and minds – as Elders give voice to language, values, traditions and teachings that were suppressed by residential schooling; inspire the building of relationships between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in Canada based on mutual understanding, respect and collective action to create a different future”. For more information see: http://projectofheart.ca/ (last accessed December 15 th 2015).

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education. For instance, the high turn-over of teachers and school directors, as well as the teachers’ lack of experience and/or the additional training necessary for teaching children in this context; one in which the children are happy to be in school, but grappling with comprehension and learning issues and one in which the children are about two years behind in the curriculum. When I asked her if residential school and its impacts were something that people in the community had spoken to her about, the following dialogue between Lena and I developed: Lena: “It’s not spoken about at all. I’ve had the occasion of providing someone with a ride on my way down (to Montreal) and things came out of, she said stuff and what happened to her. And I think Diana spoke to me a little bit about it in the past, because she use to work in the school as well, but I don’t think they talk about it. And it’s definitely not taught in the school.” A-M Reynaud: “It’s not in the curriculum at all?” Lena: “It should be, but I think that us, from the outside, can’t teach that, because of where we are. It would have to be someone from the community and I think that it’s such a touchy thing and no one really wants to talk about it so I don’t think they’ll teach it. I don’t know if they’re teaching it, I don’t think they are, I mean I’ve never heard of it being taught. So maybe in the Algonquin class they should cover that but I mean, if someone has been there, it might be too hard for them to teach, so I think that’s a big thing.” (Lena, 29, November 2011, Montreal)

On the IRSSA she added: “I don’t know their opinions because I’ve never sat down and spoken to them. I’m not sure if they want more of that or if they’re just trying to forget” (Lena, 29, November 2011, Montreal). Both Lena and Rose’s caution to say or do the “right thing” ultimately did not lead to “relationship-building” with survivors and provides an idea of just how great that challenge must be for total “outsiders” who have no links whatsoever to the community.

Solidarity perspectives: “No white person would get treated like that” Those who first and foremost self-described themselves as community allies, or as in solidarity with community members and Aboriginal Peoples in general, included activists and band member spouses or partners. Among the latter is for instance Lea, Ogi gwan abik’s Québécois girlfriend, who accompanied him to his IAP hearing and commented shortly after on the aggravating unfolding of the process. For her, the IAP application process with the lawyer (before the hearing) was carried out with a lack of care in relation to her partner’s suf-

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

fering. Additionally, at the hearing he was not given any time to think about accepting or declining the proposed IAP sum at the end of the harrowing day, and then he was not given information concerning the review process until she stepped up and asked for it. She said: The IAP resolved nothing. He’s going to receive 100,000 dollars well halleluiah, you know, you win that much at the lottery and it’s cool, you can buy a truck. But it fixes nothing, it changes nothing. The social class gap is still there. It’s clear to see that an Aboriginal, or Indian, or Anishnabe, a First Nations: whatever you tag him with, it’s going to be a second-class tag. Had I been his girlfriend longer, I would have been more alert and with more authority to intervene. It shouldn’t be that way. No white person would get treated like that. I’ve never seen such a process. It’s shocking.” (Emphasis added and translation mine, Lea, 44, August 2011, VWR)

Lea linked the fact that she still intervened several times at the hearing (to obtain information for her partner) to her education and her know-how in such situations. Something the Aboriginal elders that were present could not do. She expressed concern for other survivors going through what she felt was an unfair and confrontational process, and the detailed report she provided me with (interview 2011) of Ogi gwan abik’s IAP hearing sheds light on why survivors spoke (when they could) of anger, despair, injustice and distrust in link to their IAP experiences (see chapter seven). Unlike Lea, who shows an exceptional understanding of the process for having accompanied someone through it, most other in solidarity non-Aboriginal respondents brushed the issue of financial compensation aside, generally saying the money was a good thing and they did not want to judge it. Many mentioned how they were in no position to speak about what the money was spent on, that survivors could do what they want with it and that if it meant buying a new truck or luxury items then “good for them”. As might seem obvious, the more respondents were emotionally engaged with survivors through close relationships or the nature of their work (mainly in the health sector), the more their perspectives on the IRSSA measures were similar to those of Mitchikanibikok Inik participants.

L ocal tensions , emotions and cross - cultur al rel ationships As interviews, media reports and participant-observation will now illustrate, there is a lot of uneasiness and distrust in local cross-cultural interactions. Though in constant evolution, the general atmosphere (in the Verendrye) when I carried out the bulk of my fieldwork between 2010 and 2013 was fraught with tension.

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Fishing, hunting and cross-cultural tensions A key area of tension that was identified by off reserve “outsiders” was linked to hunting, fishing and ways of obtaining natural resources, wood for example, from the area. Respondents complained that some Mitchikanibikok Inik take advantage of their ancestral rights that allow them to hunt or fish all year by not following important fishing or hunting laws, for instance concerning the size of fish (throwing back in the ones that are too small or too large) or animal pregnancy (not killing pregnant moose for instance). They considered themselves in general more respectful towards nature and identified with what they called our territory. This possessive territorial mind-frame and the underlying economic (and identity) tensions behind it are reflected in the last edition (2015) of the VWR map Sépaq customers receive upon arrival. This large and detailed map covers the whole wildlife reserve; its lakes, waterways, camping sites, cabin locations, the main road as well as the bush paths (dirt roads going into the bush). However it makes no mention of the Rapid Lake reserve or other Algonquin settlements in the area. The Sépaq website however does say that “two Algonquin localities, Grand-Lac-Victoria and Lac-Rapid, lie within the limits of the wildlife reserve”. The subtle phrasing reflects the territorial struggle, as it insinuates that the Algonquins are located within the wildlife reserve, and not that the wildlife reserve is located on Algonquin territory. But the tensions do not always stay at the “subtle” level and one of the disputes earlier this fall that made it into the media illustrates this well129. On October 5th 2015 the Journal de Montréal reported that Montreal resident Michel Gagnon had confirmed to the paper that he had been intimidated by about thirty Aboriginals in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve. He had paid $2800 CAD to Sépaq for one week of hunting with his son and one of his employees on an exclusively reserved 100km2 territory, but quickly discovered they were not alone. The newspaper stated Gagnon had “experienced horror as around thirty Aboriginals threatened him and invaded his territory which should have been exclusively his”. In a Facebook video that sparked media interest (Radio Canada also covered the incident), Gagnon denounced what he claimed was a lack of information given to Sépaq clients about the situation in the Verendrye. He claimed he had tried to calmly negotiate with the group of Aboriginals who were in a hunting camp on his territory, but that they had told him he would not have much space as they were hunting there and only left him a small territory whereas he was the one who had paid to be there. The newspaper 129 | For another example see “Pêche sous haute tension” (High Pressure Fishing), Prince, Journal de Montreal, May 12th 2015. Last accessed online, December 15 th 2015: http://www.journaldemontreal.com/2015/05/12/peche-sous-haute-tension

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

reported: “During the eight days he spent in the forest, M. Gagnon affirms the Aboriginals killed between seven and nine moose on his territory, while his group came back empty-handed. ‘They hunt at night from the back of their pick-up trucks. They have rights while us, we have laws’, he said.” In a public response, Sépaq spokesperson argued that hunters are clearly informed that “Aboriginals” hunt and fish in the Verendrye, but Sépaq nevertheless offered to refund Gagnon if he took down his Facebook video (Prince, Journal de Montreal, October 5th 2015). Mitchikanibikok Inik community members followed the news and posted comments on Facebook such as “We too need to start making videos of white people pushing us around in the bush...lets see how far our [complaints] will go... lol [laugh out loud]” to which the response was: “They will ignore us like they always do. It’s like we don’t exist to them” (Facebook screenshot, October 6th 2015). Another recent example of cross-cultural tension in the area was the October 2015 Val-d’Or police scandal triggered by a Radio Canada investigation, which reported that several Algonquin women had been physically and sexually assaulted by SQ (Sûreté du Québec, the provincial police) officers stationed in Val-d’Or. Eight policemen were put on paid leave for alleged abuse and mistreatment of Aboriginal women. Causing a media uproar, the town has been described as divided by the report: “The situation has driven a wedge through the town, with some demanding justice for these women and others insisting that the allegations are unfounded, unproven and publicly showing their support for the embattled officers” (Curtis, Montreal Gazette, October 28th 2015). Triggering reactions beyond Val d’Or among Algonquins in the area, fear of the SQ was made public by female respondents (especially from the “new generations”, see chapter three) on Facebook, and various media sources reporting on the resulting increase in distrust: “I don’t know if the people of Winneway will accept the patrols here the way they use to,” Chief Derek Mathias said to a Radio Canada journalist (Hadjouti, Ici Radio Canada, October 23rd 2015).

On distrust and research: when conflicts interfere As made mention of in chapter three, the tense relationships between band members and the local Québécois population working and/or living part time in the Verendrye area (not the ones in Rapid Lake) was also something I experienced first-hand. As I sought contact and interviews with people working with Sépaq, outfitter establishments and even the SQ (who patrol the area and have a small station, which looks like a half burnt cabin, in Rapid Lake), I had to explain my research. For the Sépaq and the SQ this also included letters with detailed research information and potential interview questions which directly triggered a palpable distrust, as I was perceived as working with “them”: the Mitchikanibikok Inik.

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After a face-to-face explanation with an SQ sergeant based in Rapid Lake I obtained his agreement to participate in an interview, but unfortunately neither my phone calls or written requests (with interview questions) were enough to convince his superiors to let him speak to me on record. As the upcoming fieldnote excerpt illustrates, a similar strong distrust also came from Sépaq. I had not expected to encounter this extreme form of reluctance from people outside the community, and certainly not to have to deal with situations such as the following: I think the answer from the Sépaq just came, as a threat and two false accusations. After it became clear that no Sépaq employees would give me an interview (they said they are not allowed to because of my research subject), I wrote a letter to one of the local Sépaq directors (there are two) after a brief phone conversation with him over a week ago concerning an interview. He wanted everything in writing, so I wrote a long letter explaining my research and the five questions I would ask him or whoever would be willing to do an interview, unthreatening, friendly and constructive (see letter). This was about a week ago. It was quite tedious as he first wanted this by email (I have no regular Internet access) and then by fax – which meant I actually had to go to the Sépaq office (not the one where his office is, that one is very far) to fax it to him. Since then I kept on going to the office every second day and asking if an answer had arrived, all the employees had heard about me or “it”. I left a phone message again from the gas station booth yesterday. All this was quite a hassle because of distances. This morning, as soon as Rafael and Aljoscha were out of sight on the kayak, a knock on the cabin door. A big guy, unfriendly, “Madame Desmarais?” (Obvious reference to Ishkote Ikwe, probably the only woman working in Rapid Lake that they know by last name!) I answer “No, there’s no Madame Desmarais here”. Then he continued by insisting that the reservation had been made in her name (therefore insinuating that we had no right to be there because we weren’t registered). I denied. Then he asked if we had been camping in an Hékipia (Sépaq ready-to-camp tent) the last two weeks, and said we had stolen the sheets (!!). I said no, that when we left the camping site I had undressed the mattresses and left the sheets folded on the mattress to make it less work for Raymond or whoever else would be cleaning-up. I said I was not interested in sheets, and that we had borrowed some from my brother in Montreal. Then he asked if I am working at Rapid Lake. I said yes, I’m doing research, and I said that I knew “Madame Desmarais” and that maybe he was mixing me up with her as they had so kindly agreed that she can use a Sépaq cabin in a month for a workshop. He kept on insisting that our reservation was in her name, I resisted and asked to see his papers – that I had the reservation copy here, clearly in my name. He of course had nothing on him, and abruptly said goodbye. I said “et vous êtes Monsieur?” (and you are Mister?) “Dufour, Pierre – le gérant” (rien que ca! The Manager) – and he left. No kind words, no “are you enjoying your stay”. False and passive-aggressive accusations, and a bizarre allusion to my work via this purposeful (and stupid) name mix-up. (Fieldnotes, August 26 th 2011, electronic file “fieldnotes 2011”)

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

After this disturbing interaction, I found Dufour in his office and demanded an explanation for his accusations, stating that it would not look very good if they refused to speak to me now. He quickly agreed that the reservation was in my name (without even pretending to look it up) and that it did not matter for the sheets. One hour later he was back knocking at our door and I had a scheduled interview the next day with one of the two directors (the wildlife reserve direction is split into two zones). From the start of our (unrecorded) conversational interview, it was extremely clear why this director had not wished to speak to me. He claimed the reason he had gotten his job is because no one else wanted to do it, the relationship with the reserve being so bad. His perspective was that they could never get along and there would never be any accord de paix (peace treaty). Describing many altercations with community members that no doubt fed into his judgmental perceptions of “the Indians”, he said he had never heard of the IRSSA but that residential schools had been terrible and no one should ever be abused. Not intending to come across as racist, the kinds of comments he made were clearly from the perspective of someone with a demeaning view of “Indians”. “The only possible solution is a war,” he told me. “Because they will never take charge, these Indians are like children.” (My translation, transcription from oral memo made after our discussion, fieldnotes August 2011) He explained that the reason why the area is full of SQ is because he offered that in exchange for their presence they could use Sépaq amenities as they wished. I decided to include this personal experience because it not only illustrates the stress of doing fieldwork in conflictual environments, but also through my experience of having been labelled as “on their side” it provides a first-hand taste of how automatic the disrespect towards the Mitchikanibikok Inik can be.

The Q uébécois and the common lens of the colonised Claude Gélinas (2013) claims political leaders in Quebec as well as First Nation leaders convey polarising discourses that tend to present Aboriginal and Québécois130 relations as irreconcilable. He argues there are links between Aboriginal Peoples and the Québécois that reveal proximity and cultural métissage (intermixing), but that due to antagonistic political discourses, the common heritage is cast aside. Gélinas partially explains this by writing that in Quebec 130 | As explained in chapter three I stick to the use the term Québécois (despite writing in English) in reference to the Francophone inhabitants of the province of Quebec to avoid erasing the historical-political context (Gélinas also uses the same term but he writes in French). I use the term Quebecer in reference to the overall provincial population (including Anglophones).

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both Aboriginal Peoples and the Québécois have felt threatened (from colonisers) and that, as identity theory postulates, when a group’s political and cultural integrity is threatened, the tendency is to react by insisting on group particularities, sometimes even inventing them. Along the same lines, Denis Delâge (1992) argues that the initial relationship between French Canadians and Aboriginals in New France was based on mutual respect and alliances, whereas the British relationship with Aboriginals was rooted in the idea of social contract (a new society founded upon common values and rights) and private property. Therefore, Delâge claims, there was no space for Aboriginal integration in the British model and the distance in their relationship was much greater than that of the French who also frequently intermarried with their Aboriginal allies. In a 2005 interview, Delâge further explains that the Québécois denial of the Aboriginal part of their identity most likely stemmed from a “réflexe de survie” (survival reflex) imposed on them by “le regard du maître” (the overseeing eye of the master). He argues it was the masters in question, the British, who, by expulsing the Acadians from what is now Nova Scotia in 1713 mainly because of their métissage, installed a fear among French Canadians that they might experience the same fate as the Acadians, causing them to silence their own métissage (Delâge in an interview with Ravet 2005:1-4). This type of historical reading adds complexity to Regan’s call to confront the Canadian Peacemaker myth (2010), and calls for a consideration of the responses to the IRSSA’s financial compensation measures within a local Québécois context: The Québécois working on the reserve tended to empathise with Aboriginal Peoples at large because of their own history. Taking into account basic differences, they drew similarities in the political oppression experienced by the Québécois, and the oppression experienced by Aboriginal Peoples. Isabelle remembered her father having to anglicise his name in order to be able to get work and how Québécois girls were hired, fifty years ago, to clean the big homes of the richer Anglophone population in Quebec. Speaking about the Mitchikanibikok Inik community, she said: I probably understand them better than an Anglophone would. We see it with our eyes; of people who were a bit pushed aside, that were somehow to be eliminated… we were dominated by those who had the money. The education: it wasn’t for the Francophone, we were not considered able to learn, you know. It was said “they’ll stop speaking French and they’ll assimilate”, but what did we do? We had lots of babies because of the religion and we survived. So they’re stuck with us! The rest of Canada. So it’s not that different, if you look at our histories. (My translation, Isabelle, 50, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

This merging of historical experiences through the common lens of the colonised, a frequent reoccurrence throughout interviews with Québécois respond-

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush

ents, creates an inclusive sense of identification, but also two major limitations: it goes only “one way” (in the sense that Mitchikanibikok Inik community members themselves do not identify with the Québécois), and it denies the significant differences of experience. This underlines the importance of placing residential school narratives within a historical context that avoids conflation and that recognises the settler colonial history of the Québécois. As described earlier, an analysis of the interviews with Québécois respondents revealed an oscillation of emotions that reflected either distrust together with opinions of Aboriginal people as needing to “move on”, or a sense of shame in relation to the past. While both shame and guilt have been discussed as key emotions for the establishment of intergroup equality and reconciliation, Jesse A. Allpress (et al. 2010) underlines the need for “essence shame” (arising from the internalised perception that the in-group has some inherently negative quality) rather than “image shame” (arising from the perception that the in-group is badly perceived by others) in order to prompt meaningful improvements in intergroup relations. The conflation of colonial pasts revealed throughout the interviews suggests Québécois respondents experience a form of “image shame” by refusing to deeply question past moral standards while aligning themselves as victims.

S ocio - emotional reconciliation versus trust - based reconciliation As outlined in the introduction, Nadler argues the emotional barriers (which include emotions associated with victimisation, guilt as well as feelings of distrust) between rivals need to be worked on and removed in order to transform relationships towards socio-emotional reconciliation (Nadler 2003, Nadler and Saguy 2004). For Nadler (2012) intergroup reconciliation involves three interdependent processes: • Socio-emotional reconciliation; which is “anchored in the apology-forgiveness cycle and can include material compensation”. Nadler also calls this the “identity-related perspective on reconciliation” because the goal is that former rival groups reach a place where they can enjoy relatively secure identities (Nadler 2012:294). He explains: “Socioemotional processes represent an identity-related emphasis and address each of the parties’ sense of adequate identity rather than the quality of relations between them. These processes are so labeled because they seek to disarm the negative emotions that are associated with the pain and humiliation that one’s group has inflicted on or suffered from its adversary” (Nadler 2012:296). Apologies, financial compensations and TRCs would usually constitute a part of this process of socio-emotional reconciliation.

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• Trust building reconciliation; which is “the slow process in which adversaries learn to trust each other by cooperating to achieve common goals”. He also calls this a “relational perspective on reconciliation” because the goal is to establish trustworthy and positive relations between groups (Nadler 2012:294). • Structural reconciliation; which entails “political, legal and economic changes towards greater equality between advantaged and disadvantaged groups” (Nadler 2012:295). The goal here is that groups can interact in a social structure built on equal rights for all (Nadler 2012:294). While structural reconciliation is posited as a prerequisite towards reconciliation as a whole, the existence of trust is articulated as a key necessary condition to the subsequent processes of trust building and socio-emotional reconciliation. To this effect Nadler claims that if there is a high level of distrust between the two parties, socio-emotional reconciliation (an apology, compensation money and TRC sessions) may do more harm than good (Nadler and Saguy 2004:23). For instance the apology will not be accepted. “Under such conditions trust building reconciliation is more appropriate, and only after a degree of inter-group trust is established can the parties embark on the path of socio-emotional reconciliation through the apology-forgiveness cycle.” (Nadler and Saguy 2004:24) This is an interesting theory in the light of the Canadian reconciliation process. It raises, in conjunction with the emotional responses (high distrust) to the settlement that were just identified in and around the Mitchikanibikok Inik community, questions of adequacy and application in relation to the settlement plan that was opted for, at least with regards to this community. Tense and distrustful intergroup relationships at the local level discredit the socio-emotional reconciliation intent of the IRSSA. As my data illustrates, the general intergroup distrust between Mitchikanibikok Inik and majority “outsiders” permeates cross-cultural interpersonal and cross-cultural political relations in a way that blocks the possibility for socio-emotional reconciliation. Moreover, as other scholars have argued, though there have been general improvements thanks to Supreme Court decisions allowing Aboriginal Peoples to affirm their rights, the fundamental order of things remains unchanged: power relations which underline the relationships between Aboriginal populations and Quebecers still clearly advantage the latter (Salé 2013:339). This raises the issue of the prerequisite of structural reconciliation as defined by Nadler, and, though the focus of this chapter was not on provincial politics, the “wider context” of distrust for Mitchikanibikok Inik was shown as clearly inseparable from legal, political and economical concerns. As much as the wider context calls for the need to find ways to implement structural reconciliation, the identification of issues linked to normalised vio-

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lence, economic struggle and a difficult local political climate that reinforces fear and distrust among the Mitchikanibikok Inik also pointed to the need for trust building within the community. Effectively, when I first spoke to Mitchikanibikok Inik clinic staff in 2010 I quickly realised that the immediate association they made when they heard the word “reconciliation” was to reconciling their community: In fact, as has become quite clear throughout my fieldwork so far, no one around here uses the word “reconciliation” to describe what the government is doing for the residential school survivors. (Fieldnotes, August 27 th 2010, electronic file “fieldnotes 2010”) In the light of the widespread distrust in relationships within and beyond the community, as well as a Mitchikanibikok Inik sense of self as resistants (more than as victims), it is not surprising that community members readily latched on to protest options outside the IRSSA such as the Idle no More movement. We will now look at such movements which more easily provide the space for the legal, economical and political claims that, following Nadler (2012), constitute the structural bedrock necessary for trust building within and across groups, and eventually, for socio-emotional reconciliation.

S olidarit y and protest As outlined in chapter one, both a macro and a micro level movement are necessary for the facilitation of healing and reconciliation. Moreover, for the process to be effective, both top-down (official) and bottom-up (grassroots/civil society) processes must unfold simultaneously (Bar-Tal and Bennink 2004:27). Julie McGonegal (2009) points to the lack of Canadian reconciliation activist (bottom-up) initiatives in comparison to Australia where grassroots movements including the well-known “Sorry Movement” (see chapter seven) have flourished despite (and perhaps because of) the lack of compensation to survivors. She claims there has been negligible community participation in reconciliation initiatives in Canada and that “Canadians have been emotionally and politically disengaged from, and relatively uninformed about, the legacies of residential schooling” (2009:68). Between 2009 and 2015, participants in this study were effectively disengaged from cross-cultural reconciliation micro-level initiatives because there were none at the local level: there was nothing concrete besides a few online IRSSA-sponsored online reconciliation platforms they could have accessed, for instance http://1000conversations.ca/ (last accessed December 16th 2015), a failed initiative meant to stimulate online dialogues across Canada on reconciliation after residential schools. It is therefore no surprise that respondents experienced the IRSSA as a macro, top-down process, and that Mitchikanibikok Inik community members

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more readily got involved in protest options outside the IRSSA that more directly addressed their immediate concerns. The next section provides a brief overview of some of the solidarity initiatives that were active in the area over the past few years and examines how those played into exclusionary and inclusionary trust building processes.

Barriere Lake Solidarity and Solidarité N.A.B.R.O The most sustained and direct solidarity initiative, Barriere Lake Solidarity (BLS), was initiated in 2008 by Montreal-based journalist and activist Martin Lukacs. In a 2011 interview, Lukacs explained that he initially got involved with the community in 2008 “when the traditional leadership was overthrown by the federal and provincial governments” (Lukacs, 26, September 2011, Montreal). He took his first trip to Rapid Lake in February 2008, and met in an assembly with what he called the “majority faction that was backing the traditional council”. This is when the subject of solidarity work to support this factions’ political struggle was first broached, and he soon thereafter started a political campaign in Montreal that was later joined by small groups (five to ten people at their core) in Toronto, Ottawa and Halifax. As stated on their website131: “BLS is a network of people from outside of Barriere Lake who are working with the community to support their struggle”. Described by Lukacs as very active in its first two years, the BLS political campaign involved public education, media activism and production, raising money for the community and coordinating direct actions with the community (Lukacs, 26, September 2011, Montreal). Generally describing their solidarity work as consisting of “a collective of supporters of the Mitchikanibikok Inik, The Algonquins of Barriere Lake in their struggles for land and self-determination” (BLS Facebook page, last accessed December 2015), in reality Lukacs was very aware of their support for one part of the community and positioned himself as follows: I tend to disagree strongly with people, other political groups in settler society, that claim that non-native people have no place in aligning themselves with one faction as opposed to another. So for us, my work in general and the groups I have worked with in general, their take is that it’s true internal social problems, internal cultural problems and generally to some forms of internal political problems are not our place. But when it’s obvious that the state or our government is intervening in ways that assault the human rights of, that are forms of political repression and suppression of people who are standing up for political rights that we agree with, then it’s morally principled to stand

131 | Last accessed online December 16 th 2015: http://www.barrierelakesolidarity. org/

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush alongside them and to work with them and organise with them. (Lukacs, 26, September 2011, Montreal).

As interviews with respondents across factions and with solidarity “outsiders” showed, the strong local political divide (especially in 2010) was something that did intervene in BLS’s solidarity work, and vice versa. In this sense, despite Lukacs’ ability to articulate and shoulder BLS’s selective support, it stays partial in terms of its effectiveness for inclusive trust building. Moreover while the cross-cultural bridges built by BLS linked (some) community members to “outsiders” in big cities, it did not make links to local “outsiders” active on the territory. As a solidarity initiative, it can therefore be argued that BLS has played into an exclusionary trust building process in the sense that it has from the start clearly supported one community faction over another. Yet, as in other contexts where there is political discord that trickles into the social fabric of a community (for instance breaking down the unity of shared practices in the case of the Mitchikanibikok Inik), it is generally challenging for any political support group to be fully inclusionary. Illustrating this point is a less active Québécois solidarity group in support of off reserve Mitchikanibikok Inik community members from another faction: “Solidarité N.A.B.R.O.” (Solidarité avec la Nation du Bassin-Versant de la Rivière des Outaouais)132 . An offspring of the Québec student strike movement that came to be known as the “Printemps d’Érable” (Maple Spring), this solidarity group (first called SOS Poigan) active since 2012 garnered unprecedented Francophone anti-logging support through demonstrations along the 117 in the summer of 2014. Holding up signs like “massacre à la tronçonneuse” (chainsaw massacre) and “Solidarité avec les Algonquins” the demonstrators were mostly Francophone Montrealers in support of “the traditional Algonquins”. In a way similar to BLS, their partial support for off reserve members (against the Trilateral Agreement) has played into exclusionary trust building processes, albeit this time involving Québécois “outsiders” who were mostly students from Montreal. Still, both Solidarité N.A.B.R.O. and BLS have been a source of valuable support for the community by raising awareness in their own ways: Solidarité N.A.B.R.O. among (mostly) Francophone “outsiders” and BLS among (mostly) Anglophone “outsiders”. I once asked an Elder in Barriere Lake if there was an Algonquin word for “solidarity”. He said there was no direct translation, but that the closest approximation was Widji-nia-mo-dwin — which means “walking together toward a common aim”. I love this. It captures for me the essence of solidarity. Solidarity is about a conscious choice to join 132 | See: http://sospoigan.blogspot.ca/p/info.html and http://solidaritenabro.org/ both sites last accessed December 16 th 2015.

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“Idle no More” and the “Journey of Nishiyuu” An example of a more inclusive, Aboriginal-led solidarity initiative also supportive of Aboriginal rights and self-determination is Idle no More. This international movement began in response to Canadian Bill C-45, the government’s omnibus budget implementation bill that gave Canada more control over natural resources and Aboriginal reservation lands. Starting in December 2012, flash mobs, protests and Attawapiskat chief Teresa Spence’s hunger strike in front of parliament raised awareness and solidarity demonstrations around the world. In March 2013, the walkers from the Journey of Nishiyuu, an initiative that grew from Idle no More, passed through Rapid Lake and the Verendrye. The six James Bay Cree youth that had embarked on a 1000 mile journey from Whapmagoostui to Ottawa to raise awareness on Aboriginal Treaty Rights and fight First Nations poverty already had numerous solidarity co-walkers and received support from the community as a whole: they were welcomed for a feast in the reserve and joined by Mitchikanibikok Inik walkers from all “factions” in their final stretch to Ottawa. Other Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal communities (for instance the Quebecer community of Wakefield) welcomed the walkers and held feasts for them along the way. A few months later, describing the recent positive changes she had seen in the community over the past six months, the clinic’s wellness counsellor connected them to Idle no More and the Journey of Nishiyuu: Well what we’re doing in the community, which we hadn’t done in the four years that I’ve been here, is we’re having seasonal feasts, community feasts. Where the whole community gathers and honours a particular season. Like spring, summer, winter and fall. We’re building a sweat lodge this week and it’s gonna be available to the people who would like to participate. We’re doing a lot of community activities and we’ve tried to reach every aspect of the community, we have day camp for the youth, where it’s not just activities but there are some teachings there and some traditional activities there, we have a community drum which we never did have in four years that I’ve been here. Our men have a drum now, they sit at the drum and they honour every activity with the drum. And we just finished two hand drum-making sessions. One with women, we had twenty-five women and we did one with men, seventeen men. So the drums are coming back 133 | Last accessed December 18 th 2015: https://www.policyalternatives.ca/publi cations/ourschools-ourselves/our-schoolsour-selves-spring-2012WT

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush to the community. That’s one of our strong tools that we use to gather people. To bring them together. To honour them at activities and events. Different things, people are starting to ask for naming ceremonies so that they can go and receive their spirit name, their traditional name. (Emphasis added, Ishkote Ikwe, 62, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic)

Ishkote Ikwe described Idle no More and the Journey of Nishiyuu as motors in this recent renewal of traditional practices that has helped bring people together and improve formerly hostile relationships; “a large, huge motivation. For everyone here in the community” (Emphasis added, Ishkote Ikwe, 62, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic). Along the same lines, Sheila described Idle no More as a “big awakening for all people” that had partly motivated her and the other kokoms in their youth bush camp initiative (Sheila, 67, July 2013, in the bush, VWR). Importantly, Idle no More and the Journey of Nishiyuu were just as meaningful for survivors as for their children and grandchildren (the “new generations”, see chapter three), thereby helping improve intergenerational relations and dialogue: They did bring back some of that pride. Because we’ve been fighting this battle for so long, to keep our identity, and you know we’ve been fighting for so long and it’s just carrying down to the next generation. And with the elders there being supportive of the youth that are taking this movement, like taking it seriously, I think that kind of brought back some of the pride. I would say. ’Cause you see more and more people getting involved that didn’t really get involved before, with Idle no More, we had a big journey to walk there, I would say that it did bring back. […] And then now with summer around, everybody just wants to pack up and go to the bush! (Balash, 31, July 2013, Rapid Lake clinic)

These are examples of how Aboriginal-led, cross-cultural solidarity initiatives like Idle no More and the Journey of Nishiyuu can impact the local level and contribute to inclusive trust building (at least within the community) and collective healing through identity affirmation and cultural revival. For the Mitchikanibikok Inik, the return of the feast (migocewin) and the drum after years of anomie marked a clear step towards healing and social repair at the community level. Therefore, despite the fact that BLS, Solidarité N.A.B.R.O., Idle no More and the Journey of Nishiyuu all support(ed) the need for structural reconciliation as defined by Nadler (2012:295), the way they went about doing their solidarity work and its resulting inclusionary or exclusionary trust building had an impact on their social repair and healing agency: the more inclusionary trust building was part of the solidarity efforts, the more positive effects respondents reported in terms relationship and well-being improvements within the community and with “outsiders”.

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F eeling be t ter and “ keeping busy ” Moving away from cross-cultural processes encouraged via solidarity work or the IRSSA, this next section will turn to Mitchikanibikok Inik healing or “feeling better” strategies at the local level. Indeed, as made clear earlier in the chapter, respondents did not associate the concept of reconciliation with the IRSSA. I propose that Mitchikanibikok Inik healing or “feel better” strategies are local ways of appropriating the national discourse of reconciliation and of advocating for reconnecting at various levels. As put forward in chapter four, the Mitchikanibikok Inik sense of self is embedded in the individual, in nature and in the collective. The self is not the centre of all things: it is a composite. This helps explain why connection or the need for a re-connection with bush-related practices as a way to respond to the past is something that always came-up in the interviews that I did with Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents. It also situates healing as something connected to identity and therefore as dynamic: healing is not about a “holistic” return to a golden past or something static of the sort, it is about restoring a shared land-based sense of identity that addresses individual suffering as much as the divisions amongst individuals and families in the community. This entails “a return” to a balanced emotional state, one that, according to respondents, provides bedrock for trust building and the unity they consider as important for the effectiveness of their resistance against wider structural socio-political inequities. The next subsections explore how respondents described this “return” to a balanced emotional state of “feeling better” through very concrete (hands-on) practices.

Mikodan and “keeping busy in the bush” “You tell them,” she looked at me intently, “that I took their healing and it doesn’t work.” Sitting in her one-room cabin, Grace had been quite clear throughout the interview that for her healing was not a short-term government-funded program nor could it be facilitated as such, rather it was something you had to put your mind to and that required action. She explained: “For me, the way I understand healing, is you gotta put your mind to it, to do it. You can’t just sit back and think, you gotta do it. You can’t be doing other things you know, like it is today. Me, I didn’t drink. Well I use to socialise maybe one or two (drinks) but that’s it. I was never a heavy drinker; I never turned to a bottle when something bothers me” (emphasis added, Grace, 71, August 2011, at her cabin in the bush, VWR). The Mitchikanibikok Inik make use of various practices to “feel better”: they mix clinical, traditional and other strategies, which can be hard to detect but are not limited to “pan-Indian” approaches to healing as Gadoua (2010) suggests is often the case for First Nations (see chapter one). For instance, a recurrent expression that came up with Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors when

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explaining how they had dealt with (or were dealing with) difficult emotions (which were not usually articulated but always implied) was “keeping busy”. Victoria, who is from “the skipped generation” (see chapter three), is married to a survivor from the second residential school generations and she explained the connection between being out on the land and healing as follows: Well they get to do something that doesn’t remind them, you know, of that experience that they had, and they broaden their way of thinking. They connect with everything that’s out there and they just, how would I put that now, they’re happy. They’re more at ease when they’re over there. They’re not depressed you know, they’re not thinking about it you know. And over here (in the reserve) they have more time to think about those things, that’s why they’re drinking so much or doing drugs or whatever, but when they’re out there in the bush, they’re keeping themselves busy. (Emphasis added, Victoria, 62, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

The subjective experience associated to “keeping busy” is one that can be understood as removing sadness (via bodily activity). This is not what I understood at first when people spoke of “keeping busy”, which can involve checking ones traps, going hunting or blueberry picking, and it is only after having made the link between repeated situations that this became clear to me. The fact that “keeping busy” takes place in the bush is key and also calls for an understanding of emotions as social and in relation to people’s environment. It suggests that ways to cope with traditionally hypocognised emotions (such as sadness or anger) persist, at least for a certain age group. In a conversation with several survivors including George and Ogi gwan abik, I was told that what their parents, (and the parents of many others) had lost when their children went to residential school was their mikodan, their purpose in life: that which kept them busy. This is what we need to do, to recover in order to feel better George explained (George, 57, July 2013, in conversation (unrecorded) with A-M Reynaud, Kokom’s camp, VWR). Respondents linked “keeping busy” as what the IRSSA compensation money should have been organised as contributing to. Victoria put it this way: Well I think they should have done something else rather than giving money to each individual you know. Maybe start something in the community for them to use, and for the people to use, like counselling or whatever, open something that will keep them busy you know. So that they don’t just hurt all the time, trying to make them feel better about themselves. Because you know what’s happening now, everybody that went over there, not everybody but some of them are just abusing, abusing the money that they got. They’re not really getting no satisfaction with that kind of treatment. It’s as if the government is saying here, take the money, see if you’re going to feel better. (Emphasis added, Victoria, 62, August 2011, Rapid Lake)

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In Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin, the word for “healthy” (“to be well”) is madiziwin, which also means life (mino madiziwin meaning “the good life”). In this linguistic context, where life and health are conceptualised together, “keeping busy” as a way to be well or to feel better via praxis was also recurrent through blood metaphors in respondents’ narratives: they often referred to the need of getting their blood to circulate or “to flow again” and linked this to keeping busy in the bush. Good “blood flow” was equated to the notion of freedom (to pursue outdoor practices), whereas blood metaphors like “shrinking veins” or blockages (“blood not flowing”) were linked to feeling controlled and illness. Evidence of these kinds of metaphors can already be found in Boyce Richardson’s 1993 book People of Terra Nullius in which he cites a Mitchikanibikok Inik community member (a survivor) as saying: “There are two types of freedom: one is learning everything; the other is being what you want to be. How I am trying to be free is to get my blood to flow again. I am curing myself. I have always thought it was medicine to be outside” (emphasis added, Jacob in Richardson 1993:125). His mother is quoted earlier as saying: “I don’t like the way Indian people have been treated. They are getting lazy. These days, people are dying before they’re sixty. Long time ago, people use to work hard and live longer. Today people sit around too long. Their veins shrink. Long time ago people had good veins. Their blood was working real good” (emphasis added, Irene in Richardson 1993:115). This connection between “getting the blood to flow again” by “keeping busy” in the bush was one strategy that especially older respondents had in place and strove to maintain. It connects to the notion of freedom and what was discussed in chapter four: remembering freedom in a past where the Mitchikanibikok Inik way of life was not controlled by the government and other outsiders; and remembering freedom as a way of learning. As we will now see, other practices (besides activism-related activities and seasonal feasts, both mentioned earlier in the chapter) include workshops organised via the reserve clinic and sweat lodges, which we will now turn to. If it is not possible to cover them all, there are of course other strategies geared towards “feeling better”. For instance spiritual gatherings or even the commemoration event (however not attended by any of my informants) that took place in August 2013 for the unveiling of the commemoration plate at the former emplacement of the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery. It is important to note that all together these are not homogeneously shared practices.

A sweat lodge for the children There is much literature on sweat lodges (Hall 1985; Waldram 1997; Bucko 1998; Welch 2000; Hornborg 2005; Jérôme 2010), which occupy a central place in contemporary healing practices across Aboriginal communities. Laurent Jérôme describes this ritual as intimate, sacred and often marked by secret as

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opposed to powwows and “first time” rituals that are considered social events open to all (2010:95). Sweat lodges are usually organised during spiritual gatherings or family meetings and unfold according to clear steps: “choice of emplacement, construction of the lodge, preparation of participants to the type of lodge planned, entry into the lodge, four ritual passages during which the heated stones from the outside fire are watered inside the closed lodge, closure of the ritual with the sharing of food and drink” (My translation, Jérôme 2010:95). According to Jérôme, the sweat lodge is recognised as “work on the emotions”, he claims: “The emotions, aciwerimowin in Atikamekw, are at the heart of the sweat lodge. For participants, it is about “making come out” the suffering (akosiw), the sadness (kackeritam), the anger (kiciwasiw) or fatigue (aieskosiw)” (My translation, 2010:95). Very much the same thing can be said about sweat lodges (madodo) among the Mitchikanibikok Inik members who participate in this ritual. It was described to me as a re-birth: going into the lodge was like re-entering our mothers’ womb, the centre of the earth (where it is hot) in order to be reborn anew. In this transformative process, what happens in the lodge can vary greatly and depends on the master of ceremony. Sometimes the focus of “the sweat” (as it is commonly called) is on the sharing of difficult experiences and on trying to “feel better” through the expression of emotions (enimidjiwên), like anger (nickâdizi) and sadness (kickendan). Therefore participants are usually groups of adults (sometimes mixed, sometimes gender specific). The 2013 sweat lodge for the children (four sessions in total: one for the small girls, one for the big girls, one for the small boys and one for the big boys) that took place during “Kokom’s camp” (see chapter eight) was therefore described to me as unique; it was the first time elders (led by a group of grandmothers) from various Algonquin communities organised this. The participants were children and teenagers from various communities, including the grandchildren of several elders (residential school survivors) who sat in a semi-circle in front of the lodge fire. There was much laughter as the children showed some confusion about specific directions to follow, especially if they were the grandchildren of elders present. When some of the girls started to walk in the wrong direction around the sweat lodge after having taken a break from the heat, they were quickly shown what to do (not told) by their grandfather who jumped up and led the way to show them how they could re-enter. Though the sweat lodge was meant for the children, it was clear in the teaching circle led by the elders that unfolded later on that afternoon that it had greatly affected them. The teaching that was shared on truth prompted four elders, all residential school survivors, to become visibly emotional: speaking about the importance of respecting elders, especially kokoms, George became teary-eyed; and in a very unusual way, an Algonquin kokom from Kitigan Zibi insisted on

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the fact that all the children and youth present at this fire (we were about forty people in total) were loved and that their kokoms love them. Though Kokom’s camp was the first of its sort in that it was not a trauma or addictions camp but rather focused on the informal education of children, it provided a space for a kind of intergenerational healing between survivors and their grandchildren, and elders and children in general.

Trauma workshops Three reoccurrences emerged clearly from interviews with clinic staff and participants who had attended various types of healing workshops: rehab and counselling generally did not work, short-term clinic-based programmes did not work either, but healing or trauma workshops carried out as bush camps usually had some helpful, lasting effects. In charge of setting-up and seeing through healing-related workshops and programs via the clinic, Ishkote Ikwe told me: Healing for me simply means being aware of your own characteristics. What is it in your past that has brought you to the point of using substances to cover pain or sorrow or anguish? What is it about you that you can’t just face and deal with these issues? What happened to you? Where is it along the line? Was it socially influenced for you not to be able to address your issues, your concern, pain, sorrow, it could be anything […] Is it socially imposed on you or is it something coming from a belief system? You know like; where does this come from? This is what we try to do in the wilderness camp. Have them identify: where is it that you decided you needed to use a substance to cover the loss of a parent, for example. You know, when did this happen or how did this happen? Or: was it a belief system why you can’t talk about your grief or you can’t talk about your abuse? Is it a belief system that says don’t talk it’s not our way to talk about bad things? That has come up very often. (Ishkote Ikwe, 60, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

Having come in two years earlier as part of a crisis intervention team, Ishkote Ikwe is one of a few who left the community for many years (in her case, as a teenager) and returned as a competent professional: among other qualifications, she is a drug and alcohol counsellor and an intervention worker. In 2011, she had set up a pre-treatment program that brought participants camping in the bush for three weeks at a time to learn about addictions. She described the goal as harm reduction rather than therapeutic and claimed it had worked “pretty good” in the last two years. Supported by Health Canada, she was preparing the fourth session as well as a “complex trauma recovery workshop” to work more specifically with the few survivors who had attended the pre-treatment program. Very similar in its symbolic to the sweat lodge ritual, she de-

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scribed the “complex trauma recovery workshop” as a very safe program based on illumination: Which means, we bring them, the whole program is designed where they begin the program in total darkness, with little candles lit in the background, and they come out of the darkness as they deal with the issues and they look at their issues. They come out of that each day there’s a little bit more light. It’s a very textile program. I’ve gone through it myself. They come through darkness into a little bit of light, day by day. Until the fifth day, when they’re honoured and celebrated and welcomed back to their community and it’s a very emotional impacting workshop. It’s like they do a complete circle from where they, they regress to their childhood, their abuse and then they come through it with all the support of the support people that are there. I work in it now because I’ve done it and I’ve taken some training. We honour them; we bring them back and honour them. Which they’ve never had done. They’ve never been welcomed back to their community from residential school. So this is one of the best programs that I know for them. And that’s what we’re going to be doing. (Ishkote Ikwe, 60, August 2011, Rapid Lake clinic)

When we spoke again in 2013, Ishkote Ikwe was planning four bush camps for that year, each as a combination of the trauma-recovery program and the addiction awareness-raising bush camp. A few months before she had also attended the national Montreal TRC event and been informed about funding she could apply for from the Indian Residential Schools Resolution Health Support Program (IRS RHSP) to implement such healing initiatives. When I asked her why she had not applied earlier, she claimed not to have ever been informed about the IRSSA funding availability and that this could really make a difference now, although it would have been needed much earlier. Showing much hope towards the future thanks to the potential impact of the trauma recovery workshops which each time involves at least two or three survivors and increasingly their adult children, she also shared again the desire to do a workshop specifically for survivors as well as a commemorative ceremony to welcome them back to the community.

Mino mamwi sewin There is no word for “reconciliation” in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin. Yet, as the East Timor example of nahe biti (“rolling out the mat”) underlines: there are other ways of “sitting together and restoring peace” (Babo-Soares 2004). Reconciliation in mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin is conceptualised as mino mamwi sewin (“gathering in a good way, with good intent”). It was explained to me as a process that brings unity through shared practice. As has been already put forward, respondents often linked the reserve as a place where fear and distrust were prominent feeling rules. In contrast, the bush (where shared practices unfold around family hunting camps, feasts, healing workshops and spiritual

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gatherings) was described as fostering its own feeling rules that we will now turn to in link to conflict resolution and the conceptualisation of “reconciliation” for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. Though respondents all identified with the reconciliation concept behind mino mamwi sewin, they had different ways of explaining or describing it. For instance, while George told me about the importance of kagidedimowin (a “soothing verbalisation process”) in link to mino mamwi sewin, Marcel insisted on coming back to the concept of kekegan (the support system explained in chapter four) and on how this was also a visual system for conflict resolution or “reconciliation”. He thereby also was linking it to the healing concept of “keeping busy in the bush”. If he did not speak of “returning” to this reconciliation practice, as the example below illustrates, Marcel did switch into present tense when underlining the feeling rules that accompanied this traditional conflict resolution process and outlining how people should not behave.

E xcerpt 1: Marcel explains traditional conflict resolution or “reconciliation” When the community goes through a conflict, like in the past when my father use to, he told me once, we had a kekegan in place. Always use a kekegan. […] It could be also applied when there is a conflict between families, or two families. […] One main harvester of the area would say: “you will go out on the land with him, you go towards the east.” Well they know, they know how to, and then the other group would travel, would go out on the land – kopâmwin you call it – they’d go kopâm, and then the main harvester of that area, would direct the resource people to take this family and go out to harvest the land, like kopâmwin then from there they would provide the counselling by using those concepts: the spiritual, the emotional values and moral values and at the same time the physical. And then the other person that went a different direction would do the same thing, those three concepts, the spiritual, the moral and the physical, and then they would meet on their route, halfway or a third of their travel route and then one might be there before the other one and they would use the pole either to put it on the ground to give an indication to the other group that’s going to be stopping by there, so that’s how, what it also means the kekegan. To resolve some conflicts, a family conflict. […] Before they put the pole in the ground, they would clear it brushing off the leaves and they would put it in the center, to be able for the other group, the second group to identify how long these people have passed by there and then they would either put it slanted (in the direction) where they’re heading and it depends on the season. So they would go and they would slant it at an angle […] and then they’d go to a second point – the first angle would be kind of more slanted and the second location would be either same angle or more less slanted. And then on a third point they would either have the pole straight up down which means that the people, the family in conflict are ready to accept themselves, and then they would meet at the end and spend times together. To

Chapter 9 – “Outsiders”, Reconciliation and Keeping Busy in the Bush harvest during the winter months and then they would come back to the community. […] The angle of the poles means the way, which direction they went, either you slant your pole where you’re going to be heading. At the same time too it’s an indicator that the family that they’re with needs more time before any reconciliation. And the other family, the second family it would use the same location point. The first would just stop by and have a lunch while the second might sleep-over and then he would have some kind of understanding that there still need to be more, be given more counselling, to find a way how to interact or to promote positiveness, have a better understanding. The way of life takes into account, to make them feel that they are part of the community. That they feel that they will contribute to the positiveness in preserving our identity, that kind of a support. Not to impose: this is what you’ve done wrong and to tell you how to correct it. This is not the way to do it. It’s just to give a task to the individual or to the families; they explore themselves how they can best contribute. (Emphasis added, Marcel, 60, February 2014, in a phone interview with A-M Reynaud)

This illustrates well how “reconciliation” through kekegan or mino mamwi sewin is intertwined with specific feeling rules: importantly it has to come from a positive place of good intent that is not imposed and it involves shared practice that brings about community unity.

On reconciliation, good intent and structural change On October 10th 2012, two Mitchikanibikok Inik elders spoke at an event hosted by various solidarity organisations at the Odawa Native Friendship Centre in Ottawa. The event was titled “Our Land, Our Identity: Algonquins of Barriere Lake Fight for Survival” and the two elders who spoke presented their distinct views on forest management and protection. Though their differing political strategies embody the divide so often focused on by those active with the community, their speeches also revealed how much they share in common. Their concern for their territory, for future generations, and the way with which they linked their residential school experiences to loss and recovery through a reconnection with traditional knowledge on the land. When asked about the ways in which meaningful reconciliation could have unfolded in the context of the IRSSA, respondents were unanimous: first they would have needed their land, their freedom. If for some this meant honouring agreements, and for others such agreements were too compromising, whatever the case may be, all agreed that giving back the land (or agreeing on how to manage it) would help give them back “a voice”. They described their connection to the land as their strength, as their identity, as their language and as what they have to preserve. In this sense it was clear that structural change or “structural reconciliation” as defined by Nadler, was a prerequisite for them. It

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means that political negotiations rooted in good intent first have to take place: mino mamwi sewin. Milloy writes that “as the lead Commissioner, Justice Sinclair has said often, reconciliation is for us much more than a five-year journey, it is a generational journey. Through his herculean effort and that of the other two Commissioners – traveling, talking to Canadians, and most difficult, listening to the painful stories of lives and families shattered by the horrors of the school system – they have brought this into the consciousness of Canadians.” (Milloy 2013:18-19) As this chapter has shown, that last sentence is, from the perspective of Mitchikanibikok Inik respondents, a partial assumption at best. Concretely the IRSSA did not change their lives, or their relationships with local “outsiders” and it certainly did not bring about socio-emotional reconciliation as defined by Nadler (2003). Indeed this chapter showed how the local dynamics between Québécois “outsiders” and community members are fraught with distrust, which hinders the possibility for socio-emotional reconciliation as put forward by the IRSSA (with the apology, the compensations and the TRC). It also underlined how this distrust runs deep in the socio-political fabric of the community, affecting the fields of health and education in inter-generational and interpersonal ways. This was shown as posing a real challenge to “outsider” professionals working in the community, especially those in healthcare, who felt stuck in a double bind between wanting to facilitate autonomy and providing responsible, non-paternalistic, support. Moving away from the IRSSA, this chapter has also shown the central place of various strategies towards “feeling better” for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. If cross-cultural solidarity was shown as important in helping rebuild trust and cultural pride, the less visible strategies of “keeping busy” in the bush as well as having access to trauma workshops (hence the financial and human resources to organise them) were also described as indispensable towards individual and collective healing.

Epilogue It’s time for reconciliation. This was the title chosen for the TRC’s closing event, held from May 31st to June 3rd 2015 in Ottawa. Wrapping up the Commission’s six years of work, this event culminated with the release of a 300 page executive summary of the TRC’s final report, which came to two unexpectedly bold conclusions: first, looking back at the past it locates residential schools as part of an intended “cultural genocide”134 (TRC Summary Report 2015:1), an audacious assertion in the light of Prime Minister Harper’s earlier comment that Canada has “no history of colonialism” (see chapter eight). And second, looking at the present and at its own mandate of facilitating reconciliation (see book introduction), the TRC’s summary report states that “in preparation for the release of its final report, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada has developed a definition of reconciliation and a guiding set of principles for truth and reconciliation” (TRC Summary Report 2015, preface). And it further specifies: To the Commission, “reconciliation” is about establishing and maintaining a mutually respectful relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples in this country. In order for that to happen, there has to be awareness of the past, acknowledgement of the harm that has been inflicted, atonement for the causes, and action to change behaviour. We are not there yet. The relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples is not a mutually respectful one. But, we believe we can get there, and we believe we can maintain it. Our ambition is to show how we can do that. (Emphasis added, TRC Summary Report 2015:6)

134 | It defines “cultural genocide” as: “the destruction of those structures and practices that allow the group to continue as a group. States that engage in cultural genocide set out to destroy the political and social institutions of the targeted group. Land is seized, and populations are forcibly transferred and their movement is restricted. Languages are banned. Spiritual leaders are persecuted, spiritual practices are forbidden, and objects of spiritual value are confiscated and destroyed. And, most significantly to the issue at hand, families are disrupted to prevent the transmission of cultural values and identity from one generation to the next” (TRC Summary Report 2015:1).

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Therefore, the Commission’s final report largely aligns itself with one of this book’s main arguments: that despite the reconciliatory goal of the IRSSA, reconciliation has not been reached. Yet there is also a major difference between the TRC’s final report and this book’s findings: the report argues that a process of healing and reconciliation has begun (in large part thanks to the IRSSA) and must continue (TRC Final Report Vol.6, 2015:19), while for participants in this research there is no reconciliation to speak of in conjunction to the IRSSA (see the last three chapters). This was still the belief articulated by Mitchikanibikok Inik community members I spoke to when we came back for a visit in August 2015. I will come back to the TRC’s final event, its ninety-four Calls to Action (TRC 2015) and the release of its final report later in this conclusion, but before that I revisit my initial research questions so as to flesh out the main contributions of this work and make explicit how those questions contribute to a broader, interdisciplinary body of work on emotions, memory and reconciliation that has relevance beyond the anthropological study of Algonquins.

My findings and their general implications As the last chapters show, to explore reconciliation requires approaching it as an interdisciplinary umbrella concept that regroups three interrelated key processes: remembering the past, experiencing settlement, and the deployment of healing strategies. The analysis of these interlinked processes requires theoretical tools from the study of emotions, of memory and of transitional justice. From these interrelated processes, I singled out the first, remembering the past, in chapters four, five and six, and examined how it connects to the other two interlinked processes in chapters seven, eight and nine. I will now first turn to the findings from chapters four, five and six, which contribute to the anthropology of emotions with regards to the Mitchikanibikok Inik, to memory and trauma studies, and to anthropological knowledge on Algonquins. Chapter four asked what the Mitchikanibikok Inik remembered of the past and what this reveals about their understandings of selves. It also asked how this fits with the historical trauma framework encouraged in the context of the IRSSA. In the light of these questions, I showed that Mitchikanibikok Inik participants remembered their childhood in the bush (before residential school) as guided by respect and freedom. For the elders who shared their early childhood memories, the value of respect connects to a sense of self akin to what Ferrara (2004) calls the “composite self” for the Cree: a sense of self that is reciprocally embedded in the individual, in nature and in the collective. This shapes their narratives of the past and the kekegan (understood here as “values” or “support system”) participants described and which they use by “being out there on the land”. Drawing from this support system that provides a strong basis for the

Epilogue

composite self, participants always balanced their memories of suffering and hardships with memories of resistance and resilience. I demonstrated this reveals the futility of approaching the past and the history of residential schools within an exclusive framework that focuses either on the individual trauma or on the collective historical trauma. And, as I will later discuss, this leaves out the land aspect of the composite self. Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors make use of a bricolage approach to the past that comes across very clearly in the narratives they shared outside the official spaces provided by the IRSSA. Chapter five asked what were the main emotionally arousing child-rearing methods for the Algonquins and what emotions and socialising effects were thereby induced. It also asked how those compared and contrasted to the vision, methods and socialising emotions (Röttger-Rössler et al. 2013) that were applied and elicited at the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (hereafter called “Amos”). In response to these questions, the literature and my data underlined three key Algonquin child-rearing methods: punishment (via imposed activity), mockery (or ridicule) and storytelling (as preventive). I suggested the induced emotions and socialising effects were mainly agadji (“shame”) and fear meant to promote group inclusion and motivate norm compliance to fundamental values such as respect (in link to freedom as underlined in the previous chapter) and generosity. My participants described agadji as a form of shyness, embarrassment or shame that is not negatively connoted. Even if the Oblates were motivated by similar values of generosity and respect, I showed that their understanding of these values was very different, especially when it came to the notion of respect. Therefore the key child-rearing methods that were in place at residential schools like Amos were rooted in a discipline of the body and the mind. The Oblates and Sisters exerted top-down authority and physical punishment was the norm. The induced emotion was primarily fear laced with negatively connoted shame. I argued that even if the Algonquins also made use of what seems to have been the same socialising emotions (fear and shame), the emphasis and understanding was different: the induced emotion for the Algonquins was primarily agadji “shame” (which was not negative) and the fear they also made use of and that was mostly elicited through storytelling was displaced: the stories provided a buffer zone of safety for a child that physical punishment or abuse do not provide. Moreover, low interference and coercion on behalf of Algonquin adults gave children the impression that they were in charge of their own learning process; that what they learned was not imposed on them and that they were free. In contrast I argued that there was an emotional regime (as defined by Reddy 2001) of domination in place at Amos that forced the children to submit, and that therefore the socialisation of children into the normative emotional regime in place at the school was itself a form of political oppression, which severely curtailed and interfered with their freedom.

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Chapter six asked how survivors remembered their daily life at Amos and what conflicts of emotions emerged for the children there. It also asked what impacts these had on their return “home” after residential school and how this ties in to the emotional suffering and disorientation traceable in the community today. Drawing from chapter five which showed the points of departure between Algonquin and Oblate emotionally arousing child-rearing practices (and understandings of, at first sight, similar socialising emotions), chapter six first revisited survivor memories of the physically, culturally and sexually abusive practices that were in place at Amos. I showed that beyond those, former students also often spoke of “emotional abuse” and that the children faced conflicts of emotions that generated suffering. I demonstrated this through two main examples: first, the enactment of ‘the good Indian’ as encouraged through school theatre and in which the children had to re-enact their ‘Indianness’ in a way deemed acceptable by the Oblates; and second, the emotional conflict arising from the fact the children were supposed to consider the Oblates and Sisters as their new parental figures but that they felt they never succeeded in pleasing them. The children suffered from shame and distrust in link to these conflicts of emotions and as a result of the abuse. Along with other forms of dysfunction, a deep sense of shame of who they were as Mitchikanibikok Inik and as persons and a general sense of distrust were brought “home” by the survivors. I argued that though there were breaches in communication and trust between the generations, this intense emotional suffering (Reddy 2001) did not “break the family circle” but rather reinforced the family loyalty that ties in to dysfunctional behaviours in the community today by keeping the silence at all costs. As supported by my data, the disorientation (Leroux 2008) described by participants in their community today is largely connected to both individual and collective trauma, as well as to betrayal and breaches of trust stemming from residential school. Importantly, the concept of emotional suffering leaves space for liberty and agency, two important features that I showed have implications on the Mitchikanibikok Inik framework of resistance and distrust in relation to the IRSSA put forward in the last three chapters. Zooming out from these three individual chapters, I conclude that they put forward two main contributions in terms of the anthropology of emotions and the Mitchikanibikok Inik, and two main findings in link to trauma and memory that impact the next three chapters on the “reconciliatory effect” of the IRSSA. The first findings contribute to a clearer conceptualisation of emotions or enimidjiwên for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. For participants, it was clear that emotions do not encompass thought and (physical and emotional) feeling, but that the two are distinct. In this sense there is a separation between feeling and thinking which reflects the belief that the mind can regulate the emotions. I argued this is important as it departs from the often popularised pan-Indian

Epilogue

(“holistic”) conceptualisation of emotions where “everything is connected” and emotions are both mind and heart, feeling and thought. This is highly relevant when considering emotions in link to the past and to remembering residential schools because it enables a better understanding of the shared emotional attributes (such as the value on high emotion regulation) between the Oblates and the Mitchikanibikok Inik, which in turn leaves space for agency and not only victimisation when considering the past. Besides this more general finding, I also put forward an important emic concept of emotion: agadji (see chapter five summary above), as well as the specific concepts of kekegan and going kopâmwin that have ethnographic relevance. These concepts are of interest as they help shed light on the Mitchikanibikok Inik composite sense of self and the implications this had (and to a certain extant still has) on child-rearing, education and the experience of residential school. Beyond this, they contribute to the theories of freedom and reconciliation (Murphy 2010). My findings suggest a close link between practices of informal education and the positive freedom of individuals and groups as agents. I will return to this again below. The two other main findings in link to trauma and memory connect to chapters seven, eight and nine on the “reconciliatory effect” of the IRSSA. And that is, first, that the Mitchikanibikok Inik consider themselves more as agents than as victims of their past; and second, that the communicative memory of the community conveys and reinforces a culture of distrust. That the Mitchikanibikok Inik consider themselves more as agents than as victims of their past matters because the IRSSA is shaping an understanding of history along the tropes of trauma-related discourses. I showed that while historical trauma and trauma need to be taken into account in a complementary way in relation to residential school experiences, my data (and its focus on emotions in link to narratives of self and community) reveals the past should not be reduced to these frameworks. Indeed, scholars have underlined the risk of spreading a therapeutic ethic from traumatised individuals to an entire culture and to the production of history (see Colvin 2003 for South Africa), and in this sense remind us of how carefully the link between remembering and historical agency should be considered in processes of reconciliation. The memories, narratives and agency of Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors do not fit with the hegemonic discourse on victimhood encouraged by the TRC through the sharing of personal memories of suffering. Perspectives like theirs are important because they call for caution and prevention of a slippage from collective memory to a (collective) history that could become one of victimisation: one that is not a “real” history but a collective “therapy” disguised as memory and thereby shaping Aboriginal identity. I showed that an approach that considered emotions and moved away from the IRSSA master narratives (promoted by TRC events) revealed a more nuanced historical perception on behalf of Mitchikanibikok Inik participants, one

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in which they oscillated between victimhood and agency with emphasis on the latter. Though there first needs to be a deep recognition of the country’s colonial past by Canadian society before this can happen, it is my contention that this more nuanced consideration of the past is where Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal “incompatible” versions of history (Vincent 2004) can intersect, and that this recognition not only of past suffering, but also of agency, is where reconciliation can unfold in the present. The focus here on emotions revealed what was, and still is, at stake for the Mitchikanibikok Inik: their emotional liberty (see chapter six). This allows for a politically relevant approach to suffering that looks at goal conflicts and takes into account Aboriginal conceptions of freedom not just in link to informal education, but also from past and present political control. Aboriginal perspectives are often being mistaken for a romantic desire to return to a “golden age” but I showed that participants do not want to return to “a perfect past” (which they are well aware did not exist), however they want to achieve a state of emotional balance that would enable them to renew and pass on both their communicative memory (that includes their history of colonialism) and their cultural memory (see chapter one for a reminder of those memory definitions). This distinction is key because it directly moves the focus away from the contentious discussion of tradition versus modernity (and healing as assimilation, see for instance Flanagan 2000 or Widdowson and Howard 2008) to an ontological approach that considers the way people think and feel. The second main finding from chapters seven, eight and nine that impacts the “reconciliatory effect” of the IRSSA is the culture of distrust that was described by Mitchikanibikok Inik participants as conveyed by their communicative memory (see chapter one). As mentioned above, fuelled by residential school, this distrust came back to the community and seeped into intergenerational communication ways as well communication with outsiders in general. I showed there is a communicative memory of distrust, which also reveals agency in what people want to forget (like the guru-tragedy that unfolded in Rapid Lake in the early 1980s) and that the anomie that was widespread when I did most of my fieldwork on the reserve was an indication of these collective blockages through which suffering was a way of remembering. The survivor participants in my research oscillated between victimhood and agency, but did not move on to trust (or a general trusting attitude) despite recognising their victimhood, a key prerequisite to “reconnection” or trust building according to Herman (1992). Thus, this finding suggests the need for theories and practices of reconciliation to pay attention to communicative memory and the way it shapes the capacity to trust. Beyond the fact that they face the challenge of “reconnecting” (or repairing) after a double attack on their child-selves (school abuse) and on their community (dispossession), participants also made it clear that if they do not trust outsiders and governments (provincial or federal), it is because they

Epilogue

are not trustworthy. This last point is an essential element to the backdrop of the book’s last three chapters on the IRSSA, that I will now turn to. Chapters seven, eight and nine examined the unintended social consequences created by this national reconciliation project while comparing it to others within a more global context. Gerhard Anders and Olaf Zenker remind us that despite the ambitious vision of justice and peace that has been promoted via international criminal tribunals, there are tensions and contradictions between the “often lofty and abstract ideals of (transitional) justice and their actual enactments and realizations in practice […]”, i.e. the “messy realities” on the ground (2015:11). Though there was no involvement of an international criminal tribunal with regards to residential schools in Canada, this observation is still highly relevant when it comes to the application of transitional justice measures via the IRSSA. I will now summarise the findings from these last three chapters, which sought to provide a thick understanding of how Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors dealt with three of the IRSSA measures (the two financial compensations and the TRC) while drawing from other countries’ experiences with similar transitional justice measures so as to make links between this local experience and the wider theoretical implications it suggests. In doing so, these chapters especially contributed to an interdisciplinary body of work on transitional justice, healing and reconciliation. Chapter seven asked how Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors and their families experienced the IRSSA compensation payments (the CEP and IAP). It also asked how their responses complicate Regan’s claim that monetary reparations are necessary elements of “ethical reconciliation” (2010:58). My data revealed that participants were dissatisfied and angry about the financial compensations, which quickly took on the nicknames of “shut-up money” and “killer money”. The CEP generated anger, irritation, despair and distrust among recipients and their close ones. An issue they voiced was the fact that the money was allocated to individuals thereby failing the collectivity. The IAP generated anger, despair, distrust and feelings of injustice. Participants were upset at the process and with their lawyers. They described a lack of information concerning the IAP and a general lack of mental and emotional health support and practical support (for instance help with budgeting). Overall, they did not report experiencing the money in conjunction with the TRC or other IRSSA measures and the money did not take on the intended “money as recognition” meaning. In the light of the wider context, including problems with social services and the land issues faced by the community, the payments reinforced an existing sense of distrust linked not only to the legacy of residential schools, but also to the colonial framework which the schools were a part of and that participants perceive as still existing today.

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Drawing from the Australian case, Regan argues that the lack of financial compensation to the Stolen Generations was what mainly rendered reconciliation efforts “token at best” (2010:59). She claims that ethical reconciliation requires more than an apology: it must include monetary redress. Among others, the work of Gibson (2004) or Doxtader and Villa-Vicenco (2004) showed how in South Africa the compensation money, which was allocated five years after the TRC was over, generated feelings of betrayal among recipients. Thus the timing of financial allocations is important, and scholars have argued that financial compensations have to be linked to truth-telling processes in order to be positively interpreted by recipients (Minow 1998; Hamber and Wilson 2002). Hamber and Wilson moreover argue that financial reparations can serve the same psychological ends as other symbolic acts if the symbols are personalised (2002:5). In this chapter I asked how can money be “personalised” to acquire a constructive (positive) symbolic value, and I showed this is a non-negligible challenge for reparations processes and settlements such as the IRSSA. My contention is that it sheds light on the fact that the “mundane” aspects of financial compensations are key to enable this: timing, context, personalisation of the compensatory process (via apology letters or individual support), and appropriate information-giving that enables survivors to make links between various measures such as apologies or TRCs and financial compensations. I concluded that a lack of attention to these “mundane” aspects had an impact on participants feeling silenced and controlled by the compensations. Their emotions revealed and reinforced existing barriers of distrust in relation to (all three) IRSSA parties. Chapter eight asked how Mitchikanibikok Inik residential school survivors made sense of the TRC and how they dealt with this emotionally tense process. It also asked how the TRC shaped their understanding of reconciliation and healing within and out of the IRSSA context. To address the first question, I built onto Ure’s claim that the politics of reconciliation, as embodied through mechanisms such as TRCs, are host to a fundamental tension between two competing imperatives: the one of fidelity to the legitimate emotions stemming from injustice (such as anger, rage or sorrow), and the countervailing need to overcome these emotions for the sake of reconciliation (2008:285-287). The South African TRC provides an example of how the fear of revenge (and therefore renewed violence) in a context of political transition made anger an unwanted emotion, one that should be feared and overcome. Forgiveness was thereby strongly encouraged as a way to secure social harmony and the TRC offered amnesty to perpetrators who came forward. In Canada, a country that was and is not in political transition, the TRC was not the result of civil conflict but of litigation. It had no subpoena power and had to convince the general population of the truths it was uncovering (Niezen and Gadoua 2014:23). According to Niezen this contributed to an essentialisation of narrative emerging

Epilogue

through TRC events (2013:68). I argued this was bound to shape and control the emotional expressions the TRC encouraged and discouraged, thereby revealing the existence of the tension described by Ure. Drawing from the experience of three participants at the national TRC event in Montreal (2013), I suggested that the TRC attempted to “treat” anger through its healing discourse and symbolic practices that implicitly propose unilateral forgiveness as the way forward. I showed participants came to the TRC with a mind frame of distrust that was freshly reinforced by their experiences of the financial compensations (described in the previous chapter) as well as by an ongoing court case over logging matters that was unfolding at the same time. Though they participated in distinct ways, their refusal to abide to TRC feeling rules and to conform in their testimonies to the TRC’s conventional narrative template called attention to several issues: first, the ongoing issue of justice with regards to sexual abusers and the impossibility of reconciliation without it (made worse by the TRC’s no-naming of abusers policy which also blocks reconciliation by concealing the truth); and second, the lack of recognition of genocide and the wider historical-political context of denial this implies. Using the example of the Bentwood Box (Niezen 2013), I also argued that ritual and symbolic actions at the Montreal TRC event were ways with which the TRC tried to deal with the tension described by Ure by cementing a form of sacralised truth that made participants feel controlled. Still, participants’ emotional transgressions (showing anger or not showing grief) at the TRC underlined their contestation of “healing and reconciliation” as proposed by the TRC. It showed their desire to move away from a strictly healing approach to reconciliation and pointed to outstanding structural issues. In short, they wanted to address both aspects of Ure’s tension. Though participants reported “feeling good” immediately after their participation at the TRC event, this feeling was not long lasting and they went home feeling angry. I showed how this anger did not get fuelled into revenge or violence, but rather into a constructive initiative for Algonquin youth: the first bush camp dedicated to knowledge sharing organised by Kokoms (grandmothers) and other elders. I argued Kokom’s camp served as an example of the healing work being done away from the TRC in the hope of fostering unity (perceived as necessary in order to obtain political recognition from the Canadian Government) and mino mamwi sewin (“gathering with good intent”) among Algonquins, which is how participants translated “reconciliation” into their language. Chapter nine asked what emotions are shaped in the space (“contact zone”) opened by the IRSSA between Mitchikanibikok Inik and others at the local level and how these emotions connect (or not) to collective socio-emotional reconciliation as understood by Nadler (2003). It also asked what healing or “feel better” strategies and practices emerged in this context. Building on chapter seven and eight that explored how IRSSA measures failed to fully address Mit-

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chikanibikok Inik survivor emotions (therefore pointing to a gap in the causal link between truth-telling and healing made by restorative justice scholars), this last chapter first scrutinised emotional barriers from a Canadian (Québécois) perspective. I showed that though there are a variety of cross-cultural relationships at the local level, the general dynamics between Québécois “outsiders” and community members are burdened with distrust. This suggests that socio-emotional reconciliation – defined as the removal of the emotional barriers (linked to victimisation and distrust) between rivals through mechanisms such as apologies, financial compensations and TRCs (Nadler 2003) – is not possible and that trust building first needs to happen. To this effect, Nadler and Saguy claim that if the level of distrust between the two parties is high, then socio-emotional reconciliation may do more harm than good (2004:24). In this light, I argued that in conjunction to the emotional responses and the high distrust participants revealed (towards the IRSSA and “outsiders” at the local level), Nadler and Saguy’s claim raises questions of adequacy and application in relation to the IRSSA settlement measures, at least for the Mitchikanibikok Inik. I showed that the fact that community members latched on to solidarity and protests options outside the IRSSA (like Idle no More) is not surprising in the face of the widespread distrust within and beyond the community. Indeed, such movements often provide the space for the articulation of legal, economical and political requests that constitute the foundation for what Nadler calls structural reconciliation (2012:295) and which he argues is necessary for trust building and, eventually, for socio-emotional reconciliation. What the solidarity and protest movements moreover reveal is that issues linked to environmental protection, and to the renewal/restoration of the self in the natural environment, constitute places of common interest and inspiration for both Aboriginal Peoples and increasingly many non-Aboriginal peoples. Trust building within such projects that bring people together around common interests and preoccupations constitutes a possibility for bettering relationships outside the IRSSA. Moving away from cross-cultural processes encouraged via solidarity work or the IRSSA, I highlighted three Mitchikanibikok Inik healing or “feel better” strategies at the local level: “keeping busy in the bush”, sweat lodges for the children, and trauma workshops. I argued these reveal how pan-Indian forms of spirituality (for instance sweat lodges) can co-exist alongside culturally specific ecocentric135 understandings of healing (for instance “keeping busy in the 135 | As defined in chapter one, an ecocentric view attributes “a central role to connections between individuals, and between individuals and places (the land, the animals, and other beings that populate it) in personal health and well-being (Kirmayer, Fletcher and Watt 2009” (Gadoua 2010:174). As such, the Mitchikanibikok Inik composite sense of self incorporates this notion of an ecocentric view.

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bush”). I underlined how participants understood reconciliation (conceptualised through mino mamwi sewin) as having to come from a place of good intent, and as a process that is not imposed and crucially involves shared practices that foster community unity and trust. For Mitchikanibikok Inik survivors, structural change was a prerequisite for long-term reconnection (or healing) and meaningful reconciliation with Canada. Such structural change entailed giving them back the control of the territory, or at least a say over its exploitation, which would enable them to maintain their language and identity. Zooming out from these three individual chapters, I conclude that they put forward two main ethnographic contributions in link to emotions and/or the Mitchikanibikok Inik, and three main findings in link to an interdisciplinary body of work on transitional justice, healing and reconciliation. I showed the framework of resistance and the bedrock of distrust put forward in chapters four to six impacted survivors’ experience of the IRSSA and their approaches to healing or “feeling better”. In the light of their resistance-stand, survivors tried to find their own solutions (for instance through Kokom’s camp) and the first two ethnographic findings are here relevant as they shed light on local ways of coping, reconnecting or “feeling-better” outside the official IRSSA spaces. First, Mitchikanibikok Inik participants described keeping busy in the bush as the subjective experience of “removing sadness” via bodily activity. Therefore keeping busy in the bush is understood as a hypocognised emotion coping mechanism, especially for the four older generations (“the new generations” did not speak of it the same way: while many described their interest and participation in bush-related activities like hunting, they did not necessarily connect that to ritual or spiritual (animist) practices and/or beliefs). Participants linked this to good health and blood flow, which was also described as part of what it means to be free. They described keeping busy in the bush as a way to deal with the distress caused by the surfacing of memories triggered by the financial compensations and the TRC, while underlining the way this “feeling better” possibility was limited by the logging of their family territories. And second, participants explained there is no word for reconciliation in Mitcikanâpikowinîmôwin, but that they conceptualise it as mino mamwi sewin. This translates as “gathering in a good way, with good intent” and stands for a process that brings unity and trust through shared practice. Though participants all identified with the reconciliation concept behind mino mamwi sewin they had different ways of explaining or describing it (for instance via kekegan or kagidedimowin, see chapter nine). This is relevant when it comes to reconciliation within the community, as it supports the idea that reconciliation here is not about achieving a kind of conformist, political unity (which would be just as unrealistic in any other small municipality), but rather that it is about fostering

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unity through shared practices that can help bring about a sense of collective cultural affirmation. The four main findings that emerged in part three in link to transitional justice, healing and reconciliation underline the relevance of this book within an interdisciplinary research landscape on matters of global importance. First, building on what transitional justice scholars have put forward in other countries that used similar measures (financial compensations, TRCs), I showed how the “mundane” aspects of the settlement implementation were key and impacted the way participants apprehended the various measures and considered the overall reconciliatory effect of the IRSSA. In the case of the Mitchikanibikok Inik, it raises the question of why nothing was put in place by the IRSSA in and with the community despite the existing studies that underline the risks linked to the implementation of measures like financial compensations (see chapter eight). In this sense, these last three chapters contribute to a growing empirical research body that can hopefully help influence the future implementation of such transitional justice measures. Reconciliation is a normative concept that is not timeless but sensitively embedded in space and time. It generates an expectation of “reparations” that must be met in due course and properly organised in space (where, how etc.). Hence my insistence on the “mundane”, the etymology of the word itself quite fitting as from the late latin mundanus “belonging to the world” and as distinct from the church, which stands as a symbol of eternal order. Second, my contributions underline that an anthropological approach that considers emotions can help draw attention to local level needs shaped in part by national politics and economics that should also be considered at the national level: importantly the need for the implementation of “structural reconciliation” (Nadler 2012) as a prerequisite to socio-emotional reconciliation in terms of relationships and trust building. I showed that, among others, the concrete conflicts over land management, resources, child welfare and education contribute to relational obstacles at the local level and to high levels of distrust. I argued that local realities, in part shaped by the larger policy context, clearly impact the way people feel and their capacity or willingness to trust, and that this in turn influences the way they experience transitional justice measures (in the case of the IRSSA: restorative and reparative transitional justice measures). As outlined in the introduction, the IRSSA can serve as a site of exploration to a theoretical dilemma when it comes to restorative/reparative justice and emotions: the tension between the competing imperatives of fidelity to legitimate emotions stemming from injustice (such as anger, rage or sorrow) and the seeming countervailing need to overcome these emotions for the sake of reconciliation (Ure 2008:285-287). Zooming out from chapter eight and its findings in relation to that argument in link to the TRC, my research showed

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that tracing participants’ emotions in relation to their general IRSSA experience translates this “tension” into: a) Concrete places of disagreement: for instance survivors questioned the lack of retributive justice despite the general insistence by IRSSA proponents that restorative justice resonates more with Aboriginal conceptions of justice; and they also underlined an issue with the possibility of applying the “truth-telling as healing” motto in the light of the implicit no-naming of abusers rule in public TRC statements. This makes clear that applying restorative justice is fraught with challenges; Mitchikanibikok Inik participants revealed that what works for some may not for others. b) Their own initiatives and agency: even in the absence of structural change, an important point given the political obstacles that structural change faces. This brings me to the third contribution made by these last three chapters in link to healing and reconciliation: the importance of taking into consideration how those involved in national justice processes take agency to shape such processes in their own ways. As outlined in the book introduction, this means taking into account the unintended social consequences of national reconciliation projects (Wilson 2003) and the way agency unfolds outside these official processes, thereby recognising the limits of process design. Indeed, Mitchikanibikok Inik scepticism towards the IRSSA was high from the start and participants drew from their own resources to implement necessary actions towards “feeling better” outside official spaces like the TRC. The fourth contribution of these last chapters comes back to the need for historical recognition in healing and reconciliation processes. I showed how participants did not link the IRSSA to reconciliation-talk, however they did reveal the need for healing or “feeling better”. The commemoration plate that was installed in August 2013 at the site of the former Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery (Amos) also puts emphasis on healing, it reads: KIKE8IN MIKANA, Chemin de Guerison (“healing path”). The arguments raised throughout this book propose that the “healing path” here is not one that participants want to walk alone: whenever the balance tilted to focus on individual abuse or trauma, they brought the collective and historical framework to attention (be it through colonialism or genocide claims). Without diminishing the importance of dealing with current individual and family suffering in link to contemporary forms of violence (including sexual abuse), this focus does shed light on the importance of historical recognition for such national reconciliation projects: survivors cannot “digest” their past and heal (at the individual or collective level) if their historical truths are not recognised. The “Petition to reform the high school history curriculum to include the history of Aboriginal peoples, including the residential schools episode” launched by

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the Quebec Native Women inc. in late March 2013136 (just before the Montreal national TRC event) shows that, in this case, recognition is still in its embryonic stage. The new history curriculum that will be implemented in the province of Quebec starting in September 2016 is supposed to address the issue that, still today, the high school history curriculum on Aboriginal Peoples stops at the Great Peace of Montreal, in 1701. To wrap-up and before moving on to consider the evolving context at the closing of the IRSSA, the following words from Aboriginal activists and scholars Hayden King and Erica Violet Lee particularly resonate with this book. In a recent contribution to The Globe and Mail just after the release of the final TRC report in December 2015, they wrote: Perhaps reconciliation is best understood then, ironically, as conflict. We will struggle through this. We will struggle to teach about residential schools, debate who teaches it, and pray that we learn. We will continue to struggle with our very identities, addressing assimilation, racism, and trauma to find our way home. We will demand the return of land and jurisdiction over it and Canada will keep refusing. […] The struggle goes on. That’s the fundamental truth about reconciliation in Canada. (Emphasis added, King and Lee, The Globe and Mail, December 15 th 2015137)

In relation to my theoretical framework and findings, King and Lee hit at the heart of the matter: reconciliation requires navigating the tension of justice and forgiveness, of anger and peacefulness. Nathan Obed, the President of the National Inuit Organization, added a new perspective to this conundrum at the TRC’s final report release ceremony on December 15th 2015. He was one of the two only public speakers who did not speak of reconciliation as the way forward in the future. Staying away from metaphors of climbing to mountaintops and dealing with common issues, he instead painted a careful picture in which he described Aboriginal people and communities as constantly in oscillation between processes of conflict or reconciliation. In this light he argued, Aboriginal Peoples need to create (for themselves) “a peaceful middle space filled with love” (Obed, TRC report release event, December 15th 2016). There is also a middle space, he argued, in the 136 | Last accessed January 4 th 2016: http://www.faq-qnw.org/press_media/press_ release/petition-reform-high-school-history-curriculum-include-history-aboriginalAccording to the National Assembly of Quebec, the petition received 4411 signatures in two months: https://www.assnat.qc.ca/fr/exprimez-votre-opinion/petition/Petition3651/index.html (last accessed January 4 th 2016). 137 | Last accessed January 4 th 2016: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/globedebate/the-truth-is-there-but-reconciliation-is-deeply-complicated/ar ticle27759 105/

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relationship between Canadians and Aboriginal Peoples. He described it as a very large space, mostly filled with indifference and a bit of empathy. For him, it is in this middle space that the struggle has to continue.

A n e volving conte x t : the IRSSA and this book As the IRSSA was unfolding throughout the fieldwork and writing process of this book, much has changed since its initial conception. Importantly, and as already mentioned at the start of the conclusion, the TRC came up with a more precise definition of reconciliation and a guiding set of principles to work toward. At its final event in Ottawa (May 31st to June 3rd 2015), the TRC released a summary of its final report along with ninety-four Calls to Action (TRC Calls to Action 2015). By speaking of these as “calls to action” and not as “recommendations”, the Commission emphasised the urgency that something be done. It also thereby moved the focus away from the interpersonal approach to healing and reconciliation that was predominant at previous TRC events, to the need for concrete political reforms and action. It reaffirmed an important recommendation it had made in its 2012 interim report: “that federal, provincial, and territorial governments, and all parties to the Settlement Agreement, undertake to meet and explore the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP henceforth the Declaration) as a framework for reconciliation in Canada” (TRC Final Report, Vol. 6, 2015:15). The 2007 Declaration138 called upon its member states, including Canada, to adopt its provisions as a set of “minimal standards for the survival, dignity and well-being of the indigenous peoples of the world” (UNDRIP 2007, Article 43). Canada (along with the United States, Australia and New Zealand) initially refused to adopt the Declaration in objection to its provisions dealing with lands, territories and resources. When it did eventually endorse the Declaration in 2010, it was as a non-legally binding “aspirational document” (AANDC statement 2010139). I will come back to the Declaration and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s recent promise to implement the ninety-four Calls to Action, which repeatedly include the use of the Declaration as a framework, later on in this conclusion. But before I further attend to this framework, I will explain what it leaves out according to my participants. In the summer of 2015, as I was well into the writing process of this book, we returned to visit research participants and Mitchikanibikok Inik friends. 138 | Last accessed online January 5 th 2016: http://www.un.org/esa/socdev/unpfii/ documents/DRIPS_en.pdf 139 | Last accessed online January 5 th 2016: http://www.aadnc-aandc.gc.ca/eng/13 09374239861/1309374546142

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Though I had intended to present my chapter findings to the participants, I realised that they wanted to also discuss more recent events and resulting dynamics. So I conducted a few more interviews including two recorded in link to the final TRC event (bringing the number of recorded interviews used in this research from 59 to 61). I decided not to go back and change this interview number in the methodology chapter, or the TRC’s definition of reconciliation in the introduction, as these serve as a reminder that this book came to be within a contemporary context in constant evolution. Despite the release of the summary report and the TRC’s Calls to Action, the opinions of Mitchikanibikok Inik participants on the IRSSA in the summer of 2015 had not changed: for them, the settlement still did not rhyme with reconciliation. A handful of survivors (numbers ranged from seven to ten depending on whom I asked, four were participants in this research) had attended the final TRC event in Ottawa, but apparently twenty-three had applied to go. Blaming the third party in charge of the community’s finances for their late response concerning travel funding to get to Ottawa, participants claimed they found out too late that they could go and that the transport was not organised. Again, “mundane” aspects had interfered. Of those who went, the four participants who told me about their experience (in two recorded and two unrecorded interviews) mostly complained about the events’ lack of organisation and what they called “the Governor General’s feast”, which was by invitation only and from which they were excluded. Ishkote Ikwe argued they should at least have held a feast-picnic outside for all the survivors (Ishkote Ikwe, 64, August 2015, Rapid Lake Clinic). Along with Ogi gwan abik, Helen, Marcel and others, she was still of the opinion that there was “nothing left” by the IRSSA for the community, which was at the time applying for emergency funding from Health Canada after a wave of youth suicide attempts. The funding was not granted. Just returning from a nineteen-month contract that had brought her to work outside the community, Ishkote Ikwe explained that in her time away the trauma workshops (see chapter nine) had been discontinued due to a lack of funding to fill her position. This explains why participants remain sceptical with respect to the TRC’s Calls to Action, which cover these themes, but at present are not experienced in practice. It also demonstrates the importance of implementing such actions that deal with current problems and crises, for a credible and trustworthy reconciliation policy. Moving away from a therapeutic approach to re-align its discourse as one that insists on the need for political reconciliation in action, in its last months the TRC, acting as the IRSSA’s public mouthpiece, clarified the vagueness (described in the book introduction) around what reconciliation means and how it can be achieved. Instead of opting for an “easy” conclusion, the TRC took a step back to consider what reconciliation means in the light of all the testimonies

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it heard and the academic research it triggered140. In this light, I argue that if the IRSSA still found itself negotiating “Ure’s tension” and thereby shaping the way it aspired to guide healing and reconciliation through the implementation of its various measures, the TRC made a surprising and bold turn with its final report141 conclusions (including that of cultural genocide) and Calls to Action. The ninety-four Calls to Action are listed in a report comprising of two main sections: legacy and reconciliation. Under legacy are calls to action in child welfare, education, language and culture, health, and justice. Under reconciliation are, among others, calls to action insisting that the Federal and Provincial Governments adopt and implement the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People (calls to action 43. and 44.); calls to action to reaffirm the nation-to-nation relationship between Aboriginal Peoples and the Crown by renewing Treaty relationships; calls to action for the establishment of a National Council for Reconciliation; calls to action for church apologies and reconciliation; calls to action for museums and archives; calls to action for media and reconciliation; calls to action for sports and reconciliation; and calls to action for business and reconciliation. The main bulk of the calls to action are addressed to the Canadian Government. By and large, the Calls to Action address most of the structural issues that were raised by participants in this research, and they especially address the survivors’ major preoccupation: to protect the land, or – to put it in the words of my findings – to guarantee that future generations will be able to keep busy in the bush. Effectively, the Calls to Action’s insistence that all levels of government adopt and implement the UN Declaration would have major impacts on land exploitation and current issues faced by the Mitchikanibikok Inik and many other Aboriginal communities. The UN Declaration’s Article 26 stipulates that: (1) Indigenous peoples have the right to the lands, territories and resources which they have traditionally owned, occupied or otherwise used or acquired. 140 | This was particularly obvious in the three speeches delivered by the Commissioners at the final TRC event in Ottawa: one focused on residential schools and their history, another on their legacy, and the last on the resilience that came forth in survivors’ testimonies. This shows the TRC kept up with scholarly discussions while it unfolded (here especially Denham’s 2008 argument that resilience has to be considered within the historical trauma response framework, see chapter four) and in a way tried to respond to them – because, in reality, the TRC public testimonies focused much more on suffering than on resistance or resilience (see Niezen 2013). 141 | Note that the TRC’s Final Report (2015) is currently available in its electronic version and that McGill-Queen’s University Press will publish all seven books. TRC Final Report last accessed January 5 th 2016: http://www.trc.ca/websites/trcinstitution/ index.php?p=890

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If this provides a promising framework for the older participants depicted in this book, how the younger generations especially will keep busy on the reserve is less clear. The Calls to Action do not address structural issues in link to unemployment or economic development in reserves: what can or should be done to keep people busy on the rez is not detailed in the Call to Action 92 for business and reconciliation, although that it states the corporate sector in Canada should “ensure that Aboriginal peoples have equitable access to jobs, training, and education opportunities in the corporate sector, and that Aboriginal communities gain long-term sustainable benefits from economic development projects” (TRC Calls to Action, 92.ii., 2015:10). As put forward in this book, the Mitchikanibikok Inik want to keep busy, this is largely how healing takes place for them. Whether this will be facilitated through sovereignty, co-management agreements or concrete initiatives in the reserve, the social emergency crisis (of the youth suicide attempts) in Rapid Lake last summer (2015) is a reminder of how urgent this is.

S igns of hope While the social crisis affecting especially Mitchikanibikok Inik youth was only too real in August 2015, a breeze of hope had also just blown through the community: after five years of having spoken about it, participants had finally held an Elder’s camp during which they had a feast to welcome home the residential school survivors. For the first time in a long time (see chapter four for Marcel’s memory of the last feast he attended there before going to Amos), there was a feast at Barriere Lake that brought over 100 young and old people from many families and several communities together. At the feast, Pidajemo Peneshish gave a speech to welcome back the survivors who were still alive, as well as the ones who had died. Ishkote Ikwe described the camp and the feast as moments of real community reconciliation (Ishkote Ikwe, 64, August 2015, Rapid Lake clinic). Another gust of hope, this time at the national political level, soon swept over Aboriginal Canada with the federal elections. Liberal Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and the rest of his Cabinet were sworn in on November 4th 2015,

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with two eleven year-old Inuit throat singers “stealing the show”142 at the ceremony. Since then, Trudeau has shown interest and dedication to changing the relationship between the Canadian Government and Aboriginal Peoples. His attendance and participation at the TRC’s Final Report release ceremony on December 15th 2015 in Ottawa did not go by unnoticed: Harper, his predecessor, had not attended any of the TRC events besides the Closing Ceremony (during which he stayed silent) and politicians hardly attended events in general (at the Montreal National TRC event, the Mayor of Montreal sent his secretary to read his speech). After shedding a tear while listening to the Commissioners’ speeches and to the speakers from the Survivors’ Committee, Trudeau delivered a speech in which he apologised and asked for forgiveness on behalf of the Canadian Government for having failed Aboriginal Peoples. He said there is a need for a total renewal in the relationship between Canada and First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples, and that it needs to be based in rights, respect and cooperation. “I give you my word that we will renew and respect that relationship,” Trudeau affirmed. He continued to say that the TRC’s Final Report provides a way forward and “sets us squarely on the path to reconciliation”, and that his Government had already begun implementing some of the promises he had made during the election campaign: the launch of a national public inquiry into the missing and murdered Aboriginal women, and lifting the two per cent cap on First Nations education. He restated his commitment to make significant investments in First Nations education and to implement all ninety-four of the TRC’s Calls to Action, starting with the UN Declaration. How this will materialise in a political landscape shared by provincial and federal politics and legislation (especially when it comes to natural resources) remains to be seen, but Trudeau’s direct actions and emotional displays have generated hope for participants who display optimism, albeit a cautious form, in their Facebook news feeds. In their eyes, though the political climate has never been so favourable to their peoples, governmental trustworthiness will still take time and action to be achieved. The TRC initially described reconciliation as a process and a long-term goal, which can take time to achieve. This in itself presented a tension with the time-defined structure of the IRSSA. If the IRSSA was only supposed to “pave the way towards deep reconciliation” by starting “conversations” and through education, this book calls attention to the question of what other elements are necessary to rebuild trust and continue the work of the IRSSA in the long run. 142 | This was a favourite among media headlines including for the November 4 th 2015 CBC article entitled “Inuit throat singers steal the show at Justin Trudeau’s swearing-in ceremony”. Last accessed on January 5 th 2016: http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ north/inuit-throatsingers-steal-the-show-at-justin-trudeau-s-swearing-in-ceremony1.3304148

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The answer lies not only in the ninety-four Calls to Action, which mostly target federal and provincial policy. Though this kind of political reconciliation is key, what this book also showed is that local needs have to be considered: for instance healing the self through therapy and through activity. There is no quick fix, no international recipe and no book of guidelines for “feeling better” or reconciliation. Justice in its various forms is important to some, forgiveness to others. History has shown us that general “good intent” can mean “good” for some and “harm” to others, and that this is not a sufficient prerequisite for establishing trust or reconciliation. Focusing on emotions helps us detect, that what matters is whatever healing or reconciliation “methods” are deployed, they be done so in a way that leaves space for and respects peoples’ freedom. One significant aspect of this is to recognise the importance of the land on which individual and collective selves seek to renew themselves in practice.

A venues for further rese arch This book has opened several doors that provide directions for future research. I will briefly turn to two. The first would be to explore the gender aspect of healing in a way that refines my theoretical approach. This would entail looking at the role of gender in relation to emotions and childhood, and in relation to transitional justice. This book showed how participants appropriated “healing and reconciliation” through initiatives such as Kokom’s camp. Though it acknowledged the influence of Aboriginal grandmothers and the active role of women (see for instance the above mentioned petition to reform the high school history curricula in Quebec, launched by the Quebec Native Women inc.), greater scrutiny could be paid to the way gender discourses play out in “healing and reconciliation” narratives both in and out of IRSSA spaces. This would constitute an important balance in the light of the public discourse on missing and murdered Aboriginal women. The second would be to explore the possibilities (and limits) for interpersonal reconciliation via social media as a new social practice (keeping busy online). In illustration, the upcoming example will show how Facebook spontaneously brought together two people (who did not know each other) in a non-confrontational, safe way and revealed the potential for this platform to act as a tool, or site, for interpersonal reconciliation. But before and beyond that, it should be mentioned that the exploration of (archive) photo-elicitation (and other media) on widely used social media platforms would be an interesting line of exploration not only out of scholarly interest for spontaneous manifestations of interpersonal reconciliation, but also for the TRC’s National Research Centre in

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as how it could nudge reconciliation and healing with the help of residential school historical records and photography. Turning to the Facebook example, on December 15th 2015 a Québécois man’s post entitled “Les Sauvages sont au village” (The savages are in the village) started circulating in various groups and landed on my newsfeed. He posted an archive picture (below) and wrote about his memory of a hockey game he attended in Normétal, a small village in northwestern Quebec, in the early 1960’s. The local youth team he supported was playing against the team from the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery: Figure 18: The hockey team from the Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery in the early 1960’s, unknown source, posted on Facebook, December 15th 2015

“Along with the other youth in support of the village team”, he wrote, “We behaved like savages”. He remembered covering the young Algonquin players with racist insults and acts, “rien n’a été ménagé” (nothing was spared), he wrote. Further questioning why they had collectively behaved this way, he stated: “I don’t know, we played Indian and Cowboys too much. It came out like that, spontaneously. We had no idea of what these kids were living.” He concluded that what he was sure today of is that: that night in Normétal, the savages were not on the ice, but on the bleachers. His post was widely circulated, and even reposted by Ogi gwan abik who had played on the residential school hockey

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team. In response to this man, Ogi gwan abik wrote: “merci de ton courage d’en parler, et je te pardonne” (thank-you for your courage to speak about this, and I forgive you).

Appendix L ist of A cronyms AANDC Aboriginal Affaires and Northern Development Canada ADR Alternative Dispute Resolution AHF Aboriginal Healing Foundation BLS Barriere Lake Solidarity British North America Act BNA Common Experience Payment CEP CJO Centres Jeunesse de L’Outaouais C-PTSD Complex PTSD Department of Indian Affairs DIA DIAND Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development (today AANDC) DPJ Directeur de la Protection de la Jeunesse (Director of Youth Protection) DSM The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders DTD Developmental Trauma Disorder FNQLHSSC First Nations of Quebec and Labrador Health and Social Services Commission Hudson Bay Company HBCo HT Historical Trauma IAP Independent Assessment Process INAC Indian Affairs and Northern Canada (today known as AANDC) (Office of) Indian Residential Schools Resolution Canada IRSRC Indian Residential Schools Resolution Health Support IRS RHSP Program IRSSA Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement PTSD Post Traumatic Stress Disorder RCAP Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples Sépaq Société des établissements de plein air du Québec SQ Sûreté du Québec

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TRC Truth and Reconciliation Commission UNDRIP United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples UNGC United Nations Genocide Convention VWR Verendrye Wildlife Reserve

L ist of F igures Cover Window pane in church ruin, Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2006 Figure 1 Rapid Lake, known as Kitiganik to the Mitchikanibikok Inik. Source: Google My Maps, 2017 Clash of perspectives. Signs at the entrance of the Verendrye Fig. 2-3 Wildlife Reserve and across the turnoff to the road leading to Rapid Lake. Photos by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 4 William Commanda holding the original Welcoming Belt. Photo courtesy of Romola J. Thumbadoo, 2005 Figure 5 Church now turned into a day-care, Rapid Lake. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 6 A-M Reynaud taking a picture of snowshoes in the making. Photo by R. Ziegler, Rapid Lake 2013 Figure 7 Rapid Lake nursing station. Photo by R. Ziegler, 2013 Fig. 8-9 On reserve: Rapid Lake homes in various states. Two photos by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 10 Marking the territory: Quebec flag at a picnic road halt in the Verendrye Wildlife Reserve. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 11 Off reserve home in the bush, Verendrye Wildlife Reserve. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 12 Residential Schools of Canada. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2011 (modified) Figure 13 Unnamed. Vie Indienne 1960 (Vol.2, No.7, p.7) “Archives Deschâtelets, Ottawa” Figure 14 Indian Residential School of Saint-Marc-de-Figuery. Société d’histoire d’Amos, Fonds Studio Morasse/H. Dudemaine Figure 15 Unnamed. Vie Indienne 1963 (Vol.2, No.18, p.5) “Archives Deschâtelets, Ottawa” Figure 16 The Bentwood Box at the Montreal National TRC Event. Photo by A-M Reynaud, 2013 Figure 17 The kokoms protesting against logging in the VWR. Photo courtesy of Shannon Chief, 2014 Figure 18 The hockey team from the Indian Residential School of

Appendix



Saint-Marc-de-Figuery in the early 1960’s, unknown source, posted on Facebook, December 15th 2015

G lossary abinojîc young child agadji shyness, self-awareness, embarrassment (non-negative form of shame) agwa kicîmek older siblings, “child nurses” what are you doing? anedôdamin? anendemên thinking anokîwâki territory bijibibôn before winter grandfather comis deh heart enimidjiwên emotions kagidedimowin soothing verbalisation process, reconciliation kekegan literally: post sign (system). figuratively: values, (physical, moral, emotional and spiritual) support system, conflict resolution kickendan sadness kimigocanan our inclusive feast (with you) cleared land, cultivated land kitigan kitiganik place to be planted, plantation kokom grandmother kopâmwin literally: to leave the river (get out of the canoe) to go onto the harvesting grounds (place of hunting) figuratively: process of teaching children about survival, preservation of identity through relation ship with the land (and land management) kozâbidjigan shaking tent madiziwin “to be well” (healthy), life madodo sweat lodge manâdj respect manadjitôn to respect, behave appropriately and circumspectly toward, avoid wasting mandoke the practice of shamanism mdinenjigen to think about others migocewin feast mikodan purpose in life

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minokimin spring (when your feet are firm on the ground, no more ice) mino madiziwin the good life mino mamwi sewin literally: gathering in a good way, with good intent figuratively: reconciliation mitcikan stone weir mizidjîbizin birch bark cradle for new-borns nedagadjinen I am shy negabanagwîdjik spokespersons of each section of the traditional territory nîbâwîwin marital union nîbon summer nickâdizi anger nimigacanan our feast nimigocanan our exclusive feast (without you) nôkômuk bush ockenîgedjik, youth (age thirteen until thirty) odjijakwôc the living things (animate) that have spirits jack pines okik onakinakewin the sacred constitution of the people pibôn winter early spring (still icy) sîgon a deep and dark heart subideh tciji baby and toddler tekaden small game habitat (rabbit, partridge etc.) tigwâgan fall tikinâgan baby-carrier wîdigemâdowin recognised couple (consensual companionship)

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