Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women [1st ed.] 9783030445669, 9783030445676

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN RACE, ETHNICITY, INDIGENEITY AND CRIMINAL JUSTICE

Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women Edited by Lily George · Adele N. Norris Antje Deckert · Juan Tauri

Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice

Series Editors Chris Cunneen University of Technology Sydney Sydney, NSW, Australia Katheryn Russell-Brown University of Florida Gainesville, FL, USA Shaun L. Gabbidon Penn State Harrisburg Middletown, PA, USA Steve Garner School of Social Sciences Cardiff University, Cardiff, UK

This pioneering series brings much-needed attention to minority, excluded, and marginalised perspectives in criminology, centred on the topic of ‘race’ and the racialization of crime and criminal justice systems. It draws on a range of theoretical approaches including critical race theory, critical criminology, postcolonial theory, intersectional approaches and Indigenous theory. The series seeks to challenge and broaden the current discourse, debates and discussions within contemporary criminology as a whole, including drawing on the voices of Indigenous people and those from the Global South which are often silenced in favour of dominant white discourses in Criminology. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/15777

Lily George  •  Adele N. Norris Antje Deckert  •  Juan Tauri Editors

Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women

Editors Lily George Victoria University of Wellington Wellington, New Zealand

Adele N. Norris University of Waikato Hamilton, New Zealand

Antje Deckert Auckland University of Technology Auckland, New Zealand

Juan Tauri University of Waikato Hamilton, New Zealand

Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice ISBN 978-3-030-44566-9    ISBN 978-3-030-44567-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: GettyImages-471115570​ This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgements

Tēnā koutou katoa; ngā mihi mahana kia koutou. This book emerges from Aotearoa New Zealand through four people passionate about issues relating to incarceration and Indigenous peoples; in this case, the mass imprisonment of Indigenous women. Our stories here in Aotearoa— while unique—are also similar to those of Indigenous people in the United States, Canada and Australia. It made sense, then, to explore further those similarities, while articulating their distinctive histories and contemporary circumstances. Many thanks to all contributors for your hard work in getting the chapters written and to us in good time. It is often the way that Indigenous academics and activists are very busy, having to satisfy obligations not only to our professional organisations, but also to our people and communities. Thanks are also given to our people and communities, therefore, who nurture and feed us in a myriad of ways, who teach us and help us grow into our roles, including telling us to ‘back off’ when needed! Thanks to those contributors who were courageously vulnerable in sharing some of their own experiences of incarceration and interaction with the criminal justice system. Using those understandings to support others in prison and as critical voices, honours the efforts of our ancestors to create a world in which we all belong.

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vi Acknowledgements

Thanks also to the non-Indigenous contributors for honouring the places and spaces of your Indigenous collaborators. Indigenous peoples have fought valiantly for many generations to retain, reclaim and stand firm in the knowledges of our peoples, yet many understand now that working with other peoples who have the heart and the passion for the massive work ahead of us is a necessity—and that we are able to do so on our own terms. We are indebted to the staff at Palgrave Macmillan for their patience and guidance which has seen us through to publication, Liam Inscoe-­ Jones in particular. We especially thank our colleagues, families and friends who supported our work in many ways behind the scenes. New Zealand

Ngā mihi Lily George Adele N. Norris Antje Deckert Juan Tauri—Aotearoa

Praise for Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women “For many years there has been a significant gap in the academic literature about the fastest growing segment of the prison population in Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia and North America - indigenous women. ‘Decolonising our Futures’ not just plugs the gap, it confronts it. Indigenous writers and their non-indigenous peers provide a searing analysis, as they describe and explain the mass imprisonment of indigenous women, and then explore the tools of resistance and change necessary to combat the reality of neo-colonial racism. It will be an uncomfortable read for many, but a necessary one, offering new knowledge and powerful insights to those grappling with this significant issue. Ignore it at your peril.” —Sir Kim Workman, New Zealand criminal justice advocate of the Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairarapa iwi

Contents

1 Introduction  1 Lily George, Adele N. Norris, Antje Deckert, and Juan Tauri 2 Stigmatising Gang Narratives, Housing, and the Social Policing of Māori Women 13 Cassandra Lewis, Adele N. Norris, Waimirirangi Heta-­Cooper, and Juan Tauri 3 The Relationship Between Restorative Justice and Prison Abolition 35 Naomi Sayers 4 Colonial Policies and Indigenous Women in Canada 53 Dawn M. Smith 5 The Mass Incarceration of Indigenous Women in Canada: A Colonial Tactic of Control and Assimilation 79 Olga Marques and Lisa Monchalin

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6 Transcending Colonial Legacies: From Criminal Justice to Indigenous Women’s Healing103 Thalia Anthony, Gemma Sentance, and Lorana Bartels 7 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Women in Australian Prisons133 Hilde Tubex and Dorinda Cox 8 Mana Wahine Leadership After Prison155 Helena Rattray-Te Mana and Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi 9 What Was My Crime? Being an American Indian Woman173 Stormy Ogden 10 Trauma, Healing, and Justice: Native Hawaiian Women in Hawaii’s Criminal Justice System193 Toni Bissen 11 Prison as Destiny? Descent or Dissent?223 Tracey McIntosh and Maja Curcic 12 Te Piringa Poho: Healing, Potential and Transformation for Māori Women239 Lily George and Elaine Ngamu Index269

Notes on Contributors

Thalia  Anthony  is of Cypriot heritage, including from the colonised region, and works on Gadigal land. She researches systemic racism in law enforcement and consequences for Indigenous women. Her books include Indigenous People, Crime and Punishment and Decolonising Criminology. She collaborates with Aboriginal organisations in research and activism. Lorana Bartels  is a first-generation Australian of Dutch and European Jewish heritage who works on Ngunnawal and Ngambri land. She researches sentencing, corrections and the treatment of women and Indigenous peoples in the Australian criminal justice system and works with Indigenous people in academia and government and non-­ government organisations. Toni Bissen  is an attorney and administrator with over 25 years of experience working in the community non-profit sector. She serves as the Executive Director of the Pūʻā Foundation. Her professional focus is addressing issues of trauma underlying the disproportionate representation of Native Hawaiian women in prison.

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Notes on Contributors

Dorinda  Cox  is an Aboriginal (Noongar) woman. She has skills and experience across a broad range of areas including cultural-specific policy analysis, coaching, mentoring and leadership development. She has specific knowledge and work experience in the family and domestic violence and sexual assault sectors. Maja Curcic  is Slovenian and came to New Zealand to research colonisation, neo-colonisation and Māori hyper-incarceration. Her recently completed doctoral study examined the violence continuum in the lives of those who experienced incarceration. The study investigated the ongoing process of the making of Māori hyper-incarceration with its destructive social, cultural, economic and political consequences. Antje Deckert  is Senior Lecturer (Criminology) at Auckland University of Technology. Her research examines academic and media crime discourses and their interactions with Indigenous peoples and epistemologies. She is co-editor of both the Palgrave Handbook of Australian and New Zealand Criminology, Crime and Justice (2017) and the peer-­reviewed journal Decolonization of Criminology and Justice. Lily  George  (Te Kapotai/Ngāpuhi tribes) is Adjunct Research Fellow with Victoria University of Wellington. She serves as Chair of the New Zealand Ethics Committee. Her research interests include Māori youth development, incarceration of Māori and Indigenous women, and she specialises in Indigenous community-based health and wellbeing research. Waimirirangi Heta-Cooper  (Te Aupouri, Ngai Takoto, Ngati Ranginui) is a research assistant and an undergraduate student studying a conjoint in Law and Māori and Indigenous studies at the University of Waikato, New Zealand. Cassandra Lewis  (Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairoa) is a post-graduate student, tutor and Research Assistant in Sociology and Psychology programme at the University Waikato, New Zealand. Her research interests include Indigenous precarity and the social policing of Indigenous women within the context of securing housing.

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Olga Marques  is Assistant Professor (Criminology) at the Ontario Tech University, ON, Canada. Her research interests include the construction, policing and regulation of gendered, sexed and raced bodies, the interrelationships between gendered/sexed social norms, social control, and resistance, and Indigenous experiences of criminal justice. Tracey McIntosh  (Ngāi Tūhoe) is Professor of Indigenous Studies and Co-Head of the School of Māori Studies and Pacific Studies. Recent research focuses on incarceration, poverty, inequality and social justice, recognising those with lived experience of incarceration and marginalisation as experts of their own condition. Another strong interest is the interface between research and policy. Lisa Monchalin  teaches in the Criminology Department at Kwantlen Polytechnic University, BC, Canada. She is Algonquin, Métis, Huron and Scottish. Driven by personal and family experiences, she is determined to reduce crime that affects Indigenous peoples through education. She authored The Colonial Problem: An Indigenous Perspective on Crime and Injustice in Canada (2016). Elaine Ngamu  (Ngati Porou ki Harataunga) is one of 11 children, the mother of five with two stepsons, and has 26 grandchildren and two great grandsons. She is of Irish as well as Māori descent. She has a Postgraduate Diploma in Whānau Ora from Massey University, and is running Patua te Ngāngara, a whānau-centred methamphetamine programme at Hoani Waititi Marae, as well as supporting community reintegration and Youth Court proceedings there. Adele N. Norris  is Senior Lecturer in Sociology and Social Policy programme in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand. Her scholarship engages Black feminist methodologies to explore state-sanctioned violence against Black and Brown bodies. Stormy Ogden  is a tribal citizen of the Kashia Pomo and direct descendent of the Tule River Yokuts. She is a community organiser and speaker. She helped to create Chumkawiwat—Words with wings sending Native language material and other resources into prisons for Native women and men.

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Notes on Contributors

Helena Rattray-Te Mana  (Ngā Rauru tribe) is an emerging researcher employed by Te Atawhai o Te Ao. She also manages research projects and has co-authored works such as Traumatic brain injury of tangata ora (Māori ex-prisoners), (2017), Reclaiming our people following imprisonment (2017) and Māori women in prison (2015). Naomi Sayers  is an Anishnaabe-Kwe of the Garden River First Nation. She is an Indigenous lawyer and Indigenous feminist. She is the author of Kwe Today. Gemma  Sentance, doctoral candidate, is a Wiradjuri woman and researcher at the University of Technology Sydney. She researches the experiences of Indigenous women within the criminal justice system. In 2013, she was admitted to the Supreme Court of New South Wales as a legal practitioner. Dawn M. Smith  is Nuu-chah-nulth from Ehattesaht. She grew up in Nuu-chah-nulth and W̱SÁNEĆ with her late parents Clyde and Norma Claxton. She is an educational developer for Indigenization and Sustainability at Camosun College’s Centre for Excellence in Teaching and Learning located in the territories of the LKWUNKEN (Victoria, BC, Canada) speaking peoples. Juan Tauri  (Ngati Porou tribe) is Senior Lecturer in the Sociology and Social Policy programme at the University of Waikato. Her research projects focus on a diverse range of topics, including youth gangs, domestic violence, Indigenous experiences of prison, and the globalisation of restorative justice, and is co-editor of Decolonization of Criminology and Justice. Te  Atawhai  Nayda  Te  Rangi (Ngāti Tūwharetoa and Ngāti Porou tribes). The Aroha Trust, formed in 1977, is the only gang-associated women’s Trust in Aotearoa. She contributed to Trust—A true story of women and gangs (2009). Her thesis for a Masters degree in Applied Indigenous Knowledge was titled He reo ko, he reo areare—The liberated voice of wahine within a gang collective.

  Notes on Contributors 

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Hilde Tubex  is Associate Professor at the Law School of the University of Western Australia. Her areas of expertise are comparative criminology and penal policy, Indigenous peoples and the criminal legal system. She has been involved in several research projects with a focus on Indigenous overrepresentation in the criminal legal system.

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1

Indigenous women as a share of all women imprisoned in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand Fig. 10.1 Three contextual parts and four component parts. (Source: Pūʻā Foundation info-graphic brochure) Fig. 10.2 Two systemic framework parts. (Source: Pūʻā Foundation info-graphic brochure) Fig. 12.1 Te Piringa Poho: Model of healing, potential and transformation. © Lily George and Elaine Ngamu

10 211 213 259

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List of Tables

Table 1.1

Scope of Indigenous women imprisonment in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and the United States 2 Table 1.2 Comparing Indigenous women with all women 9 Table 10.1 Current Pūʻā Foundation—programme categories and projects214 Table 10.2 Evaluation results 218

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1 Introduction Lily George, Adele N. Norris, Antje Deckert, and Juan Tauri

Gordon (2011) states that “Policies of mass incarceration have been called a ‘waste management prison’ approach … where the problem becomes one of containment and storage, not of rehabilitation and preparation for reintegration” (p. 5). Most people know that the United States’ incarceration rate is the highest in the world. Many are also aware that Indigenous people are disproportionately incarcerated in the United States as well as in Australia, Canada, and in Aotearoa New Zealand (Cunneen & Tauri, 2016) and that the incarceration of women, in general, is on the rise. Only

L. George (*) Victoria University of Wellington, Wellington, New Zealand A. N. Norris • J. Tauri University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] A. Deckert Auckland University of Technology, Auckland, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_1

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few people know, however, that Indigenous women represent the fastestgrowing segment of the prison population in all four countries, with the incarceration rate for Indigenous women in Australia and New Zealand being higher than that in the United States and Canada (see Table 1.1). Māori imprisonment has steadily increased from 3% to over 50% since the nineteenth century, and Māori women now make up over 60% of the female prison population (George et al., 2014). It has been over 20 years since Luana Ross (1998) published Inventing the savage: The social construction of Native American criminality in which she advanced the concept of neo-colonial racism to articulate the specific, interwoven strategies of systematic denial of freedom and sovereignty that neo-colonial societies use for the social control of Indigenous peoples. Since Luana Ross’ seminal book was published, Indigenous women’s imprisonment has increased sharply. Voices of Indigenous women detailing specific ways settler colonialism exposes Indigenous women to a system of state-sanctioned violence has been around for several decades, Table 1.1  Scope of Indigenous women imprisonment in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and the United States • 1 in 30 Australian women are Indigenous • 1 in 20 Canadian women are Indigenous • 1 in 6 New Zealand women are Indigenous • 1 in 118 United States women are Indigenous • 1 in 345 Australian Indigenous women are in prison • 1 in 56 Canadian Indigenous women are in prison • 1 in 334 New Zealand Indigenous women are in prison • 1 in 242 United States Indigenous women are in prison • 1 in 86 Australian Indigenous women are under correctional control • 1 in 37 Canadian Indigenous women are under correctional control • 1 in 61 New Zealand Indigenous women are under correctional control • Australian Indigenous women are ten times more likely to be in prison than non-Indigenous women • Canadistian Indigenous women are nine times more likely to be in prison than non-Indigenous women • New Zealand Indigenous women are four times more likely to be in prison than non-Indigenous women • United States Indigenous women are three times more likely to be in prison than non-Indigenous women Note that it is not always possible to separate out statistics for the United States as they are often compiled on a state-by-state basis, rather than a national tally

1 Introduction 

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speaking across diverse domains. Such voices are pertinent to elevating the awareness of and advancing the discussion of high imprisonment rates, violence and safety experienced and articulated by Indigenous women, which remain largely invisible in national political discourses. As Indigenous women’s voices and activism engage in strategies of resistance and emancipation, it is the purpose of this volume to capture these voices as they articulate the depth of systemic violence against Indigenous women and the remarkable agency Indigenous women wield in the struggle towards liberation. Decolonising our futures: Neo-colonial criminal injustice and the mass imprisonment of Indigenous women seeks to contribute to the decolonising, intersectional and comparative literature by addressing issues around the mass incarceration of Indigenous women. As Deckert (2014) has pointed out, a dearth of publications on the subject contributes “to the ongoing marginalisation of Indigenous peoples” because “an inadequate quantity of criminological discourse inhibits public attention to the social problem of disproportionate incarceration rates” (p.  39). Furthermore, Norris (2017) has noted that “the absence of a critical lens toward contemporary forms and experiences of racism undergirding the mass criminalisation of Indigenous people perpetuates a colour blindness that in turn works to normalise mass female incarceration” (p. 2). Therefore, it is both important and timely to examine the contemporary mechanisms that drive the mass imprisonment of Indigenous women and to discuss strategies for grappling with the realities of racism. Luana Ross and other Indigenous scholars have recognised that a thorough examination of the mechanisms that generate and perpetuate neo-colonial racism is required to enable and sharpen resistance to racist practices and policies. In this edited collection, Indigenous scholars—some jointly with non-­ Indigenous peers—illuminate how neo-colonial societies continue to deny many Indigenous peoples a life relatively free from state interference as most citizens enjoy it. The book covers three main subject matters. Firstly, it seeks to explain the recent surge in the incarceration of Indigenous women in neo-colonial states. Secondly, it investigates implications that the mass incarceration of Indigenous women has for their children, partners, and whānau/mob/communities. Perhaps most importantly, the book addresses activism, resistance and Indigenous strategies against the mass

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incarceration of Indigenous women. Over the course of the following 11 chapters, the authors explore how White-settler supremacy is exercised and preserved through neo-colonial institutions, policies and laws, leading to failures in social and criminal justice reform; the impact of women’s incarceration on their children, partners, families, and communities; and the tools of activism and resistance Indigenous peoples use to resist neocolonial marginalisation tactics to decolonise their lives and communities. Indigenous academics and scholar-activists from Australia, Aotearoa New Zealand and North America have contributed to this book. In Chap. 2, Stigmatising Gang Narratives, Housing and Social Policing of Māori Women, Cassandra Lewis, Adele Norris, Waimirirangi Heta-­Cooper and Juan Tauri investigate the negative stigmas that are used to dehumanise and to limit, restrict and deny assistance to poor and racially marginalised populations, especially single mothers. This chapter closes a crucial gap in the literature as scholars have examined racial social control with regard to gangs, but how the stigma of gang affiliation influences access to quality housing has been scantly examined in Aotearoa New Zealand. Employing a discourse analysis, the authors examine parliamentary speeches with regard to the Organised Crime Bill and Residential Tenancy Amendment Bill (2009–2018) to explore how gangs are framed in housing-related political discourse. The findings reveal that language used by policymakers constructs gangs as being associated largely with Indigenous Māori through three main tactics: referencing “ethnic” gangs as the only entity/focus of organised crime; omitting Pākehā/White gangs and whitecollar crime; and identifying areas/towns with high Māori populations as in need of targeted social control. The authors argue that such framing strategies fashion a criminalising narrative around Māori as gang members and as inherently violent. This negative discourse permeates housingrelated political rhetoric, framing Māori as “bad” or “undesirable” tenants enabling policymakers to stigmatise Māori as the “criminal other”. The authors conclude that this motif carries severe implications with regard to life chances of Māori women, especially as they relate to housing screening practices and the ability to secure social housing. Chapter 3, sole-authored by Naomi Sayers, bears the title The Relationship Between Restorative Justice and Prison Abolition. The author analyses Canada’s current restorative justice model and critiques the

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application of restorative justice in the lives of Indigenous people, especially Indigenous women. The chapter provides a different way to think about restorative justice through the lens of prison abolition. The writing includes autobiographical accounts and is based on the premise that prison abolition is the only true restorative justice. The author writes both an academic and legal analysis coupled with personal narratives describing experiences in prisons. She comparatively discusses what restorative justice meant for her as a criminalised Indigenous woman, in contrast to what it means to her today as an Indigenous lawyer who is, to this day, still impacted by the systemic criminalisation of Indigenous communities. Chapter 4, Colonial Policies and Indigenous Women in Canada, is written by Dawn Smith. She investigates the alarming Canadian prison statistics. The rate of incarcerated Indigenous women increased by 109% from 2001 to 2012, a trend that continues upwards. This chapter explores neo-colonial policies and legislation behind the mass incarceration of Indigenous women in Canada. The author demonstrates that the crimes associated with the incarceration of Indigenous women are largely poverty-­related such as breaches of probation, failure to appear in court, and unpaid fines and theft. Moreover, racialisation renders incarcerated Indigenous women susceptible to unfair treatment (e.g., experiences of segregation, solitary confinement or denial of early release). Through stories and literature, the reader will gain a better understanding of the urgent issues facing incarcerated Indigenous women. For example, most of them are mothers to children under the age of 18 years who will likely be placed in long-term foster care. The author demonstrates how the vicious cycle of colonialism and oppression continues to dominate the lives of Indigenous women, making them more likely to reoffend. Chapter 5, The Mass Incarceration of Indigenous Women in Canada: A Colonial Tactic of Control and Assimilation, also focuses on the Canadian context. It is co-authored by Olga Marques and Lisa Monchalin. The latter is also the author of the recently published, groundbreaking book The colonial problem: An Indigenous perspective on crime and injustice in Canada (2016), which chronicles eras of colonial oppression Indigenous people in Canada continue to struggle against that has manifested in the dominant group’s attitudes towards crime and the “punishable”. In this chapter, the authors argue that Indigenous women continue to be seen as a

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threat by the colonisers due to their power and prominence held in their communities. Because of their central roles, Indigenous women have been a target of the colonial agenda to eliminate Indigenous presence. The authors outline how the criminal justice system in Canada became one of the major apparatuses set up to assimilate and control Indigenous presence. They argue that the mass incarceration of Indigenous women constitutes an ongoing genocide and cannot be understood outside of the context of the colonial and necro-political agenda. Prisons represent the epitome of the colonial apparatus which has continually tried to dismantle Indigenous peoples’ communities and families. Yet, despite these genocidal colonial tactics, Indigenous women remain, which serves to show their strength and resilience. Chapter 6, Transcending Colonial Legacies: From Criminal Justice to Indigenous Women’s Healing, is co-authored by Australia-based Thalia Anthony, Gemma Sentance and Lorana Bartels. In their chapter, the authors explore how institutional inter-generational trauma is perpetuated by criminal justice interventions into the lives of Indigenous women. The authors illustrate how past and present colonial policies and practices have shaped Indigenous women’s lives and resulted in disproportionate incarceration across welfare and penal domains. They also assess the ways in which the criminal justice system characterises trauma to problematise and pathologise Indigenous women. Illustrations of healing, well-being and self-determination models embedded in Indigenous women’s organisations and services, lead the authors to call for a paradigm shift from prisons to healing centres for Indigenous women. Chapter 7, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Women in Australian Prisons, is also focused on the Australian context. Co-authored by Hilde Tubex and Dorinda Cox, this chapter focuses on the specific social and cultural obligations Aboriginal women have, which cannot be replaced by others, resulting in gaps in the social structures of affected communities, causing intergenerational trauma, which can lead to further and ongoing contact with the criminal legal system. The authors provide an overview of the fragmented official datasets available about Aboriginal women’s imprisonment, which despite their fragmented nature, give an indication about the reasons why so many Aboriginal women find themselves in prison and are returning to prison. The chapter looks particularly at the seemingly

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rising violent behaviour among Aboriginal women considering the ongoing effect of colonisation and its links to family violence and intergenerational trauma. The authors argue that a shift of focus is necessary from women as “offenders” to an understanding of the broader context in which this behaviour takes place, which will enable us to develop grass-roots support networks addressing this concerning trend. Chapter 8, Mana Wahine Leadership After Prison, co-authored by Helena Rattray-Te Mana and Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi, argues that despite serving time in prison, Māori women in Aotearoa New Zealand cannot be excluded from becoming mana (prestige) wāhine (women) leaders. This is a discussion that carves a passage through the additional layers of ostracisation and stigmatisation that one Māori woman (Te Rangi) encountered leading up to and into prison. It also highlights her journey of restoration and healing after prison and where she fits within mana wāhine theory and mana wāhine leadership. It is a story woven from a personal narrative of the former prisoner and gang-affiliated woman, Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi. Like the previous chapter, Chap. 9, What Was My Crime? Being an American Indian Woman, sole-authored by Stormy Ogden, is also based on personal experiences with the criminal justice system. The chapter begins with a poem along with personal stories that outline the ongoing violence targeted towards American Indian women in prisons. For the author, the violence and racism started at a young age with being called “dirty half-breed” by her White mother. Stormy Ogden argues that this—along with other violence in her life—contributed to her becoming a prisoner. American Indian people have been incarcerated in different forms of penitentiaries since the beginning of colonisation. The author argues that, as the Bible and bottle were used to gain control over Indian lands and deny Native sovereignty, prisons—in one form or another— have been used to control Indian bodies. Prisons are instruments of racism and social control, constructed by a system whose purpose is to isolate and dehumanise. It was under these conditions that the author learned how to survive, how to fight against policies which deny Indigenous people the right to pray and the right to identify as American Indian. The chapter draws attention to new voices of resistance including The Green Corn Collective: Indigenous women who created the feminist

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hashtag campaign JailBed that addresses the high rate of Native peoples who continue to be incarcerated in the United States. Chapter 10 is contributed by Toni Bissen. Her chapter, Trauma, Healing and Justice: Native Hawaiian Women in Hawaii’s Criminal Justice System, discusses community efforts to support women in, as well as those exiting, prison that continued after the Trauma Informed Care Initiative at the Women’s Community Correctional Center ended in 2012. Direct and social incarceration costs and savings along with evaluative data analysis of three specific initiatives are also included. Chapter 11, Prison as Destiny? Descent or Dissent? is written by Professor Tracey McIntosh, the leading authority of female imprisonment in Aotearoa New Zealand, in which she explores parallels in the struggles of Indigenous peoples across settler states who have been systematically brutalised and marginalised by state policies and practices. In seeking to understand patterns of confinement, incarceration and silencing, this chapter implores readers to recognise incarcerated and formally incarcerated women as experts of their own condition, which should ultimately drive the platform to inform decarceration strategies that are not limited to exploring new creative possibilities for sustained transformative change. Chapter 12—Te Piringa Poho: Healing, Potential and Transformation for Māori Women—is written by Lily George and Elaine Ngamu of Aotearoa New Zealand and concludes this volume. In this chapter Lily and Elaine explore the importance of research on Māori women’s experiences of incarceration that privileges life narratives through a postdoctoral project. The chapter discusses the changes in the ways Māori women were perceived, resulting in diminished and devalued roles in New Zealand society. Historical trauma has resulted in a multitude of negative responses, some of which have led Māori women on a pathway to prison. Two frameworks for rehabilitation and reintegration programmes are discussed—Te Piringa Poho (George and Ngamu) and Hokai Rangi (Department of Corrections). Table 1.2 and Fig.  1.1 depict more statistical information on Indigenous women.1  Tables 1.1 and 1.2 and Fig. 1.1 compiled by Brent Commerer, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand, 2020. 1

166,049,288 0.80%

1,402,254

3.30% 4.90% 16.50%

12,187,868 17,488,485 2,380,197

399,952 860,265 393,501 5775

1158 15,188 1176

33.10% 42.20% 64.60%

Indigenous women as share of all women in prison

231,000 2.50%

3494 36,001 1821

All Indigenous women as Indigenous women share of all women in in prison prison women

na

4634 23,028 6399

Indigenous women under correctional control

1,215,000

19,944 67,704 11,652

All women under correctional control

na

23.20% 34.00% 54.90%

Indigenous women as share of all women under correctional control

Notes: All figures are for the most recent year available “Indigenous” defined by census agencies as Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander in Australia, Aboriginal in Canada, Māori in New Zealand, and American Indian or Alaskan Native in United States “in prison” means served some time in prison during the most recent reporting year (Australia, Canada, New Zealand) “under correctional control” includes prison, probation, parole, community service, and so on, in most recent reporting year na = not available, because a reliable source not found for this data Data sources: Australia: Australian Bureau of Statistics, https://www.abs.gov.au/ Canada: Statistics Canada, https://www.statcan.gc.ca New Zealand: Stats NZ Tatauranga Aotearoa, https://www.stats.govt.nz/ United States: US Department of Commerce, US Census Bureau, https://www.census.gov/; US Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, https://www.bjs.gov/; and Prison Policy Initiative, https://www.prisonpolicy.org

Australia Canada New Zealand United States

Population Population of Indigenous of all women women

Table 1.2  Comparing Indigenous women with all women

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Indigenous Women as a Share of All Women 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0%

Australia In the national population

Canada In prison

New Zealand Under correctional control

Fig. 1.1  Indigenous women as a share of all women imprisoned in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand

With most contributors embedded in their Indigenous communities, the authors write from a community and experiential perspective as well as through an academic lens—a feature that makes this book a comprehensive resource for scholars and students of criminology, sociology, Indigenous studies, women and gender studies and related academic disciplines. It may also offer valuable insights to policymakers, policy analysts, criminal justice and law enforcement personnel, other criminal justice practitioners and industry specialists, educational scholars, community activists and workers, historians as well as non-academic audiences, offering new knowledge and insider insights both nationally and internationally. The voices in this volume draw from a diversity of experiences and come with their own expertise as racialised people in settler states. As Michelle Alexander (2012) asserts in her book, The New Jim Crow, “mass incarceration tends to be categorised as a criminal justice issue as opposed to a racial justice or civil rights issue” (p. 9), the voices in the volume effectively articulate the claim that incarceration for Indigenous women is most likely a matter of the latter rather than the former.

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References Alexander, M. (2012). The new Jim Crow: Mass incarceration in the age of colourblindness. New York, NY: New Press. Cunneen, C., & Tauri, J. (2016). Indigenous criminology. Bristol, UK: Polity Press. Deckert, A. (2014). Neo-colonial criminology: Quantifying silence. African Journal of Criminology and Justice Studies, 8(1), 39–63. George, L., Ngamu, E., Sidwell, M., Hauraki, M., Martin-Fletcher, N., Ripia, L., et  al. (2014). Narratives of suffering and hope…. MAI Journal, 3(3), 183–196. Gordon, L. (2011). Causes of and solutions to inter-generational crime: The final report of the study of the children of prisoners. Christchurch, New Zealand: Pillars Inc.. Monchalin, L. (2016). The colonial problem: An Indigenous perspective on crime and injustice in Canada. Toronto, ON: The University of Toronto Press. Norris, A. (2017). Are we really color-blind? The normalisation of mass female incarceration. Race and Justice, 9(4), 454–478. Ross, L. (1998). Inventing the savage: The social construction of Native American criminality. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press.

2 Stigmatising Gang Narratives, Housing, and the Social Policing of Māori Women Cassandra Lewis, Adele N. Norris, Waimirirangi Heta-­Cooper, and Juan Tauri

Introduction Internationally, including in New Zealand, homelessness, evictions, and foreclosures are commonplace and even the hallmark of many cities and small towns struggling to survive (Eaqub & Eaqub, 2015; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; McNeill, 2016). The United Nations estimates that the homeless population, depending on how homelessness is defined, could be anywhere between 100 million to one billion people across the world (Madden & Marcuse, 2016). Increasingly, discussions of rising housing prices and cost of living dominate mainstream media and political discourses (Eaqub & Eaqub, 2015; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; McNeill, 2016; Munro, 2018). After the 2008 global economic meltdown, the term ‘housing crises’ emerged, drawing attention from reformers, activists, and academics. The global housing crises have gained considerable

C. Lewis • A. N. Norris (*) • W. Heta-Cooper • J. Tauri University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_2

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traction over the last decade, prompting new national conversations. However, the idea of ‘crisis’ implies that inadequate or unaffordable housing is abnormal, a temporary departure from a well-functioning standard. For Indigenous, Black, and working-class people and communities, the housing crisis is often the norm (Alexander, 2012; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; Proulx, 2018; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015; Walker, 2004). Over-crowded and unhealthy dwellings have always persisted for the oppressed and the dispossessed (Hemmons, 1996; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; Moreton-Robinson, 2015; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015; Walker, 2002, 2004). Controlling one’s housing is a way to control one’s labour, free time, relationships/friendships, schools, and so on. Struggles over housing are always, in part, struggles over autonomy and self-­ determination (Madden & Marcuse, 2016). Where one lives can precisely influence the treatment one receives by the state and wider society (Banivanua Mar, 2016; Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Bonilla-Silva, 2000; Hattery & Smith, 2018; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015). As it is widely known that residential oppression has been shaped by historical policies of exclusion and racialised social control, it is not experienced uniformly (Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015). Thus, the contemporary housing crisis cannot be untangled from the legacy of exploitative historical events, such as colonisation. Considerable scholarship on housing-related issues has increased globally over the past decade. Important to this discussion is the renewed attention towards housing as an essential race-making institution and its connection to the carceral state (Bonds, 2019; Inwood & Bonds, 2017). Little work has been undertaken using critical discourse analysis (CDA) to examine housing political discourse as it relates to the presence of stigmatising narratives used to criminalise different segments of the population, especially Indigenous people. This chapter sets the context for a CDA of this issue by first providing a brief overview of the historical and contemporary processes that set in motion unequal or restricted access to housing. The focus then shifts to a discussion of the interrelated nature of stigmatising narratives, social policing, and discriminatory housing practices. The findings section presents three key framing techniques. This chapter concludes with a discussion of particularly powerful and salient elements of the language used to frame tenants and housing issues that

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likely impede or restrict access to housing, especially for Indigenous women living precarious lives.

Power Relationships, Māori, and Housing In New Zealand, the housing system intersects with stratification and exclusion in complicated ways that are rooted in modern capitalism, racial control, setter-colonialism, and White supremacy. For example, the Settler Wars of the 1860s led to massive Māori (Indigenous New Zealander) land appropriation. The Pākehā (New Zealander of European descent) hegemony facilitated the enactment of a privatisation policy and numerous land laws that created ‘a legal jungle within which Māori lost themselves and were preyed on by its natural denizens, the land speculators or their agents and shyster lawyers’ (Sinclair, 1980; as cited in Bonilla-­ Silva, 2000, p.  201). At the end of the nineteenth century, the New Zealand government introduced a series of educational and political reforms to accelerate the civilization process of Māori, but the underlying intent was to normalise their supremacy over Māori land and its people (Banivanua Mar, 2016; Bonilla-Silva, 2000). Massive land appropriation continued into the twentieth century. Regardless of increased urbanisation and the concomitant social advancements policymakers believed would accrue (see The  Hunn  Report, 1961), by the mid-1960s many Māori communities began to exhibit precarious social indices characteristic of increased contact with institutions of social control (Tauri, 2016) and engagement in low wage sectors of the labour market (O’Sullivan, 1999). The advent of neo-liberal social and economic policy by the third Labour government in the 1980s saw Māori over-representation in negative social statistics across a range of policy portfolios solidify, especially in relation to crime and victimisation, child care and protection contacts, low educational attainment, and a range of housing-related issues such as home ownership and homelessness (Marriott & Sim, 2015). Groot, Hodgetts, Nikora, and Leggatt-Cook (2011) identify homelessness as a common theme experienced by Indigenous people worldwide and specific to New Zealand. The authors link the over-representation of Māori homelessness to the colonial project of propelling a significant

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number of Māori into impoverished and over-crowded urban housing plans in the immediate post-war era. It is also worth noting that Māori were once favoured in government social housing policies (Walker, 2004; Wanhalla, 2006) as colonial initiatives encouraged the urbanisation of Māori to hasten their assimilation into Western ideals of the consumer-­ citizen (Woods, 2002). It is documented that this ‘privilege’ soon changed. By the 1970s and throughout the 1980s, Māori began experiencing racialised obstructions and restrictions in attaining social housing (Murphy & Cloher, 1995). Māori over-representation in working-class jobs and severe under-­ representation in professional and managerial employment (Bonilla-­ Silva, 2000) automatically place them in a precarious position to secure housing. Neo-liberal reform of the welfare state and privatisation of social housing during the 1990s–2000s further compound the issue as state-­ owned housing stock quickly depleted and social housing was reconfigured at market rates (Wanhalla, 2006). Māori families engaged in precarious work/employment have continuously experienced scrutiny of race-based policing that has resulted in extreme marginalisation. Poor single mothers, often stereotyped as the ‘undeserving poor’, were particularly vulnerable to being locked out of secure housing (Kingfisher, 1999). Power relationships between existing class structure and society hinge on housing (Madden & Marcuse, 2016). Given this, housing has always been a central mechanism used for racial social control and race-based policing and is thus inseparable from the criminalisation of Indigenous people (Alexander, 2012; Andrai, McIntosh, & Coster, 2017; Ritchie, 2017; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015). US scholars have long examined state-­ condoned violence against Black and Brown people, interrogating the relationship between housing and crime-control policies (Alexander, 2012; Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Davis, 1997; Norris & Billings, 2017; Provine, 2007; Roberts, 1993; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015). While colonisation occurred differently across nation states, similarities exist among Indigenous peoples, including their experience of criminalisation, of them as individuals, of their communities, and their cultural practices (Cunneen & Tauri, 2016). Since the 1980s, housing and race have been central themes in the narrative around the War on Drugs and gangs in both the United States and New Zealand (Alexander, 2012; Andrai et al.,

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2017; Hattery & Smith, 2018; Norris & Billings, 2017; Ritchie, 2017; Ross, 1998). Locating crime and gang activity in urban areas, inner cities, ghettos, housing projects, or rural areas with high minority populations have been a consistent strategy among policymakers, police, and mainstream criminology (Alexander, 2012; Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Norris & Billings, 2017). Residents from these areas, regardless of their disposition, are vulnerable to labels of being deviants, gang members, violent, or morally corrupt. Factors driving high rates of imprisonment among Indigenous people, to the extent that they have become the most incarcerated group of people in the world (Cunneen & Tauri, 2016), also influence Indigenous people’s access to housing and proximity to the criminal justice system.

 tigmas, Social Policing, S Housing Discrimination Policy issues are defined in a multitude of ways. Often policymakers rely on story lines that emphasise one aspect of an issue over others, which influences the appearance of social problems on the public agenda (Goetz, 2008). Framing, given its influential nature in determining policy alternatives, policy outcomes, and the connection between a problem and solutions (Goetz, 2008), has been discussed broadly within housing-­ related discourse. For example, Edward Goetz’s (2016) examination of the framing of affordable housing in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, Minnesota, found that social housing advocacy groups struggle with conveying the critical need for affordable housing to both policymakers and communities. Challenges mostly arise from deeply rooted stigmas attached to poverty and the ’racial other’. Goetz (2016) notes that advocates for the poor, as well as public officials responsible for affordable housing programmes, are met immediately with negative reactions that range from not-in-my-back-yard responses to offering stigma-laden narratives of low-income people that conjure images of crime, social decay, and alcohol/drug abuse.

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To encourage suburban communities to provide a full range of housing options, advocates navigate hostility by depicting beneficiaries as White, employed in widely accepted jobs (such as teachers, police officers, firefighters, nurses, and nurses’ aides) and with young families (Goetz, 2016). Strategies also include the use of senior citizens as beneficiaries. The study found that substituting the language from affordable housing, which conjured imagery of the racial other, poverty, and crime, to lifecycle housing produced significantly different results wherein the latter received stronger support. Such strategies are very telling in that they reveal the embedded nature of the association of affordable housing with the ‘racial other’; in this case, Black, Indigenous peoples, and Latino populations (Hanson, Hawley, & Taylor, 2011; Hattery & Smith, 2018). This study also illustrates how deeply rooted stigmas attached to non-White populations give rise to various types of social policing even before one enters the housing market. Social policing often refers to the use of the police force to control the behaviour of Black and Brown people (e.g., by arrest, incarceration, murder, etc.). The term also means the control, regulation, and surveillance of Black bodies in terms of how Black people are allowed to be, where they are allowed to go and when, and what choices Black people are allowed to make (Hattery & Smith, 2018). The complex nature of the social policing of Black and Brown bodies has always been a prominent feature in housing discussions and policy (Hattery & Smith, 2018; Madden & Marcuse, 2016; Ross, 1998). In a country like the United States, property has always been intertwined with race. Anti-black racism, First Nation genocide, and White supremacy were foundational to the housing system. Symbolic policing, particularly in the case of housing, refers to an aspect of policing that does not involve either law enforcement or the criminal justice system (Hattery & Smith, 2018). The term symbolic policing denotes strategies of surveillance and control extending far beyond ‘the police’ and involves state agencies and agents across a range of policy portfolios, including social security, labour market and employment, childcare and protection, and housing. Groups relegated to segregated communities or excluded from securing housing, despite having the resources to pay, experience a type of social restriction of movement

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via a variety of systems and policies (Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Bonilla-­ Silva, 2006). For example, today in the United States, Black people are denied available housing 35–75% of the time (Bonilla-Silva, 2006). Discrimination in US states with large First Nation populations is even higher. Discrimination against Indigenous renters ranges from 25.7% in New Mexico to 33.3% in Minnesota, averaging 28.5% across the states (Turner & Ross, 2003). Minorities are less likely to be shown apartments as their White counterparts; are quoted higher rents; experience worse housing conditions; and are more likely to be steered to specific (non-­ White, affluent) neighbourhoods (Bonilla-Silva, 2006). Housing, social policing, and symbolic policing intersect in complex ways. Communities with high populations of Black and Brown people are over-policed and experience rampant state-sanctioned violence (Alexander, 2012; Proulx, 2018; Ritchie, 2017). However, racial discrimination and housing are far from new discussions. A violence birthed in the establishments of colonisation and slavery was not only a process of dehumanisation, but also the genesis of the creation of cultural stereotypes that continue to undermine, control, and restrict marginalised peoples (hooks, 1981; Norris & Billings, 2017; Ritchie, 2017; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015). Because it is illegal, today, to outright deny housing based on race, it is imperative to interrogate contemporary forms of more covert racist practices that structures risk, choices, and life chances. Eduardo Bonilla-Silva’s (2015) examination of the structure of new racism in the United States, during a time of a so-called colour-blind and post-racial era, looks at housing and the economy. Housing and residential segregation, nowadays, is almost as pronounced as in the past (Bledsoe & Wright, 2019; Bonds, 2019; Massey & Denton, 1993) even though some of the contemporary forms of segregation are not even captured by the indices used (Bonilla-Silva, 2015). Bonilla-Silva (2015) notes that: [S]egregation persists because discrimination in the housing and lending markets remains. Blacks and Latinos experience discrimination in forms such as steering by realtors, receiving a disproportional number of subprime loans net of their credit worthiness, and being given differential information about the availability of housing units. These practices

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i­llustrate new style discrimination because all of them are hard to detect and even harder to label “racial.” We know about all of them mostly because of audit studies and not due to reports from the victims of discrimination. In fact, most of the minority participants in these studies did not even realise they had experienced discrimination until they compared notes with their White counterparts. (p. 1362)

Bonilla-Silva (2015) illustrates that the steering practices listed above are not only legal but are also difficult to detect. Even those who are victims of steering practices are oblivious to the racist intent. While extensive research in the area of housing screening practices and discrimination is emerging in New Zealand, several cases exist detailing similar occurrences of discrimination in accessing social housing. Housing, like in many other countries, is on the government agenda in New Zealand and is widely discussed in mainstream media. Specific cases of steering practices and discrimination do not receive the same attention as housing affordability and the rising rate of homeless. For example, in November 2018, the Bay of Plenty Times met with Donna Love, a 34-year-old single mother, to report how she was squeezed out of Tauranga’s rental market because of her number of children. Comments from emergency housing advocates not only substantiated Donna’s claims but also confirmed that she is one of many being discriminated against by selective landlords (‘Tauranga mum’, 2018). Despite having good references, a full bond, and a good credit history, Donna was told she did not fit the criteria, yet the requirements were never specified. As a result, Donna moved her children into a tent in her mum’s backyard for a couple of nights. Donna explained that her decision to move to Tauranga was to be near her mum to receive help with her children. A few months later, also in Tauranga, Reremai Cameron, a Māori woman, felt dehumanised in her search for housing. Inquiring about a listing of a single room she found on Trade Me, Reremai stated that the potential landlord asked in one text message, ‘Just reading your name, are you Māori? If so I hope you are aware the rent would only cover you and no friends or family to stay in the sleep out. We had a Māori in our home before who had multiple family and friend visitors that is something we

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will not tolerate’ (Bell, 2019). Both cases provide insight into specific ways race, gender, and class play out in housing screening practices and the power dynamics of securing housing in general.

 he Criminalisation of Indigenous Peoples T and Housing Indigenous people have the highest rates of incarceration in the world (Cunneen & Tauri, 2017; McIntosh & Workman, 2017). Roughly 15% of New Zealand’s total population is Māori, which also comprises over half of the country’s prison population (Cunneen & Tauri, 2017; Deckert, 2014). Māori women are the highest incarcerated group, making up 62% of the female prison population and 57% of women on community sentences (Bevan & Wehipeihana, 2015). Mechanisms influencing Māori women’s rate of imprisonment undoubtedly influence their access to housing. It is important, therefore, to emphasise the historical criminalisation of Indigenous peoples (Agozino, 2018; Kitossa, 2012; Ross, 1998; Smith, 2015; Tauri, 2014; Walker, 2002). Indigenous and Black scholars have identified specific ways stereotypes and the creation of controlling images have permeated mainstream discourses and societal perceptions so much so that race or ethnicity do not have to be identified for one to conjure the image of the ‘racial other’ as criminal and/or violent (Bull, 2017; Collins, 2004; hooks, 1981; Norris & Billings, 2017; Ritchie, 2017; Ross, 1998; Welch, 2007). Ample research exists detailing specific ideological and political tactics employed at all levels of society to criminalise Black and Indigenous peoples while at the same time excluding or exonerating White people from criminalising and deficit narratives (Alexander, 2012; Norris & Billings, 2017; Norris & Lipsey, 2018; Quince, 2017; Walker, 2002). Social housing, in particular, has remained a site for the regulation of tenants’ behaviour (McNeill, 2016). Historically marginalised people have always been relegated to social housing in some form—locked out of education, housing, and economic markets—thus, vulnerable to

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stereotypes, social policing, and criminalisation (Bonilla-Silva, 2000; McNeill, 2016; Norris & Billings, 2017; Proulx, 2018; Ross, 1998; Shilliam, 2015). It is well established that negative stigmas are used to dehumanise and to limit, restrict, and deny assistance to the poor, especially poor single mothers. While Indigenous scholars have examined racial social control especially with regard to gangs, how the stigma of gang affiliation influences access to quality housing has not received scholarly attention. As housing is a key issue on the government agenda, the process by which property speculators, landlords, and rental agents screen potential tenants based on preconceived characteristics is of critical importance and is under-researched. The framing of ‘gangs’ and individuals perceived as ‘gang affiliates’ in housing discourse likely influence the general perceptions of the ‘good’ versus the ‘bad’ tenant. Because social housing policies are set and implemented at the national, regional, and local levels and influenced by private, public, and non-profit realms, as well as by liberals and conservatives, political rhetoric can lend itself to providing insight into housing screening practices. Employing a critical discourse analysis to examine parliamentary debates (Hansard) about the Organised Crime Bill and Residential Tenancies Bill from 2009–2018, this project examines how gangs enter and are framed in housing-related political discourse.

Methodology Hansard is the official record of the New Zealand parliament that includes debates and events on the floor of the House. It is the ‘verbatim record’ of debates being reported in direct speech (Slembrouck, 1992). In order to explore the socio-political-cultural context in which discussions of crime and housing occur, an examination of Hansard parliamentary debates was deemed ideal. This space allows for an interrogation of the relationship between language use and ideology to get a sense of power, control, conflict, and dominance. In doing so, one also gains an idea of the distribution of social and physical resources. To examine how gangs enter and are framed in housing-related political discourse, New Zealand’s parliamentary database (accessed through

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www.parliament.nz/en/) was consulted. After filtering for Hansard speeches, the Organised Crime Bill (two readings) and Residential Tenancy Amendment Bill (three readings) were retrieved. Given the aim to uncover the language around organised crime, a content analysis was deemed most appropriate. Keywords and phrases related to ‘criminal activity’, ‘threat’, and ‘violence’ provided the initial set of codes. From this point, emergent themes and subthemes were identified. The codes and themes identified in the Organised Crime Bill then served as the initial codes for the second component of the study, which examined the Residential Tenancy Bill.

Findings In this section, we discuss the emergent themes from analysis of parliamentary speeches, as recorded in Hansard, starting with the Gangs and Organised Crime Bill, followed by consideration of statements related to the Residential Tenancy Amendment Bill.

Gangs and the Organised Crime Bill The first component of the analysis examined two readings from the Organised Crime Bill in 2009, consisting of 38 speeches and 25,940 words in total. The keywords gang(s), criminal, corporate companies/ corporations, white-collar crime/criminals, Māori, and Pākehā/European/ White were part of the initial search. From this stage, subthemes emerged such as political parties and iwi (tribes). For example, while political parties/groups and companies/corporations were never singled out as participants in organised crimes, one iwi in particular, Tuhoe, emerged via speeches as a distinct threat to community safety. More specifically, Tuhoe’s political activism was conflated with gang activity, thus violent. Strategically linking Tuhoe with gang-like behaviour justified their need for suppression. The framing of Tuhoe as ‘violent’, and behaviour of its members as ‘gang like’ and requiring suppression, needs to be analysed within the context of the ‘terror raids’ carried out by New Zealand Police

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in October 2007. Ostensibly undertaken due to supposed ‘terrorism-like’ conduct by members of Tuhoe, armed police descended on Tuhoe lands and arrested eight individuals who were charged under the Suppression of Terrorism Act 2002 (Sluka, 2010). Despite the fact that the terrorism-­ related charges were eventually dismissed, the Tuhoe were subsequently problematised in discourse related to the Bill. Corporate crime’ only surfaced once to introduce corporate crime into the discussion, but the rhetoric immediately shifted to gangs and/or gang activity. ‘White collar crime’ received very little attention being mentioned only three times. Conversely, ‘gang(s)’ emerged 363 times, which was almost exclusively associated with ‘Māori’, which emerged 157 times. ‘Pākehā/European/White’ received hardly any references and only emerged indirectly from one speaker with six references to the Hells Angels (a predominately Pākehā/White gang). Given this, ‘gangs’, ‘Māori’, and ‘crime/criminal activity’ emerged as primary themes and were discussed relationally. Police emerged as a secondary theme given their proximity to gangs/gang activity. Mentioned 157 times, police were brought into the discussion only in association with an expansion of gang surveillance. ‘Youth’ and ‘violent crime’ also surfaced as secondary themes linked to gang activity. The former was discussed in terms of being perpetrators of violent crimes as gang members and also susceptible to gang affiliation if not given the proper intervention. The latter, ‘violent crime’, was linked only to gang activity. Thus, eradicating violent crime meant eradicating gangs.

Residential Tenancy Amendment Bill Emergent themes from the Gangs and Organised Crime Bill served as the initial codes used to examine parliamentary speeches about the Residential Tenancy Amendment Bill (2009–2016), which consisted of three readings and 57,800 words. Significant attention was devoted to the housing crises that gave rise to a myriad of social problems in its wake. Keywords such as ‘rentals/rental property’ surfaced 205 times, mostly when articulating unaffordability, inefficient housing, and excessive power bills. Affordability of heating residential houses emerged in association with

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poverty, illnesses, and children. While secondary, gangs emerged in a similar fashion as found in the Gangs and Organised Crime Bill. Gang(s) specifically emerged in the discussion of state housing, violence/destruction, Māori, low-income, and locations with high minority populations (e.g., South Auckland, Manukau East, Mangere, Porirua, and Otara). These discussions also centred women as victims of gang violence or as gang associates with the potential to introduce criminal activity into housing. White/Pākehā/European never emerged. Violence and destruction of property were associated primarily with Māori and only occurring in low-income areas. Drug use emerged but only in reference to gang activity and low-income pockets/neighbourhoods. These rhetorical tactics worked to exonerate Pākehā/European/White and middle-class populations from deviant labels, violent activity, and crime and drug use. Through the process of omission, the White middle-class population is constructed as the ‘ideal’ or ‘good’ tenant.

Discussion Through processes similar to what Schneider and Ingram (1993) detail as social construction of target populations, gangs were used to frame racial/ ethnic groups as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ tenants. For example, the blatant omission of Pākehā/Europeans/White exonerates the dominant racial/ethnic group from association with crime, gang activity, and violence. Pākehā are, thus, excluded from stigmatising narratives, which in turn, influence access to housing, even when they are associated and engaged with criminal activity. Through this omission, Pākehā assumed a default position within the legislative and policy context of ‘government’ as morally superior and ‘worthy’ (of state assistance and support). Moreover, this process also constructed Pākehā as the group in need of protection with the power to precisely define from whom and what they need protection from (e.g., Māori and gangs). In this case, gangs (more precisely, Māori gangs) are presented as a threat to the broader social order. Similarly, white-collar crime and political organisations were excluded from the discussion of criminality and criminal activity. Concealing white-collar criminal activity from public scrutiny, political and public

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discourses offer a type of protectionism that undoubtedly intersects with race (White) and social class (upper-middle class). Techniques used to frame organised crime or criminal activity centred Māori by relying heavily on individual accounts, sensationalised by political actors and racially dominant groups, which Harrison and Sanders (2016) identify as poignant strategies that successfully frame the ‘irresponsible poor’, the ‘failing family’, or the deviant perpetrators of riotous acts. Groups falling into the ‘undeserving’ category are particularly vulnerable to facing socio-­ economic disadvantages, media condemnation, and declining public sector support, which often leads to a ‘downward spiral of condition[s] and process[es] of what might be called relative dispossession’ (Harrison & Sanders, 2016, p. 9). In their discussion of drivers of popular support for increased social control of low-income and minority racial groups, Harrison and Sanders (2016) emphasise unbalanced press reporting that plays upon, rather than discourages, negative perceptions of ‘less-deserving’ people, which, in turn, strengthens fear and intra-class or intra-group hostilities: In this context, ideas about misbehaviour appear to overlap with concepts of the underserving, and it is difficult to separate hostile perceptions of behavioural, ‘characteristics’ from assumptions linked to intra-class demarcations, ethnicity, gender, disability and other differentiations. (p. 7)

Very much like Goetz’s (2008) analysis of the framing of affordable housing in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, Minnesota, our research demonstrates the often nefarious nature of the process through which policy and legislation are developed in New Zealand’s Parliament. Legislation and policy resulting from the framing exercises of government can and does impact people’s lives, sometimes in negative ways. The framing exercises associated with the Organised Crime and Residential Tenancy Bill’s highlight a number of significant issues for those working to alleviate the precarious lives lived by many Māori, especially Māori women. Many of these issues align with Goetz’s findings, including the dominance of policy discussion by politicians wedded to their Party’s ideological constructions of social problems, which also aligned with the silencing of ‘the Other’. In the case of this study, the deployment

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of rhetorical devices, via the use of gangs and gang members, were aimed at the criminalisation of Māori, and their negative representation as ‘violent’, ‘bad tenants’, and living in predominantly ‘poor’, deprived communities. For Māori women, their framing in the parliamentary debates about both bills, centred on their ‘associations’ with gangs and gang members, especially as partners or ex-partners of gang members. The seemingly ‘positive’ rhetoric regarding Māori women’s victimisation at the hands of gang members is tempered by their framing as a potential source of gang-­ related issues for officials responsible for overseeing social housing. Those partnering with gang members were framed as potentially ‘bringing crime in’ to the social housing context through their intimate relations with male gang members, who were themselves framed as the violent, criminal brown men. But even those Māori women seeking social housing assistance as part of a strategy to escape relationships with gang members are equally framed as a potential source of crime and social disruption as a result of their ‘previous (gang) association. This point highlights the power of the framing process, and of the master status conferred upon groups like Māori women that often results from it. The master status of “gang associate”’ is a status that carries with it the potential to exacerbate (or create) barriers to accessing government assistance like social housing.

Conclusion An examination of the framing of gangs in housing-related political discourse offers some insight into complex power dynamics driving relative dispossession with regard to restricted access to housing, which are difficult to detect. The way gangs are framed in the Organised Crime Bill racialised gangs as non-White through the use of coded language, colour-­ blind strategies (e.g., naming towns/cities with large populations of Māori and Pacific Islanders and excluding Pākehā/European/White from crime-related discussions). These strategies worked in tandem to socially construct Māori as a threat warranting government intervention. Consequently, stigmatising narratives not only entered housing-related political rhetoric, but also set the stage for discussions of  exclusionary

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practices. The Organised Crime Bill provided the foundation to socially construct Māori as the ‘bad tenant’ rendering them vulnerable to social policing and screening practices that possibly block access to social housing. While framing strategies, in the case of organised crime and criminal activity worked to conjure imagery of Māori and/or gangs in society’s consciousness without explicitly mentioning either, the strategies also facilitated selectivity (e.g., target population) when extending criminalisation to a specific segment of the population (e.g., Māori). Māori women are particularly susceptible to the stigmatising narrative of gang affiliation, especially if they reside in areas designated as gang territory, which are primarily associated with poor working-class communities and social housing. Because Māori women represent the highest group imprisoned, the status of ‘ex-prisoner’ will bear more harshly on Māori women, especially those with children, who will likely face obstacles to secure employment (Alexinas, 2008; Pool & Baxendine, 2006). Therefore, it is imperative that the social ramifications of the growth of an imprisoned population and the consequence of high numbers of ex-­ prisoners are brought into contemporary discussions of housing and especially of access to social housing. Through the use of controlling images or stigmatising narratives, Indigenous people are continuously surveilled and punished, not only by police but also by wider society (e.g., landlords and property speculators). Therefore, future research is needed to further expand the discussion regarding specific ways the stigma of gang affiliation transpires in the power dynamics between the landlords/rental agents and potential tenants to help identify particular forms of discrimination that hinder Māori, and especially Māori women from accessing social housing. Moreover, a critical examination of the tactics and strategies used to mask housing discriminatory practices will be useful to interrogate levels of deprivation experienced by certain segments of the population that likely influence their proximity to the criminal justice system. Lastly, it is imperative that research be carried out to identify strategies and tools marginalised people use to resist marginalisation tactics and rental screening practices. Centring the voices of those most affected is of paramount importance to inform public policy and academic enquiry.

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Glossary Pākehā  New Zealander of European descent. Māori  Indigenous New Zealander. Tūhoe  A Māori tribe of New Zealand. Iwi  Tribe, nation, extended kinship group and is often a large group of people descended from a common ancestor.

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3 The Relationship Between Restorative Justice and Prison Abolition Naomi Sayers

Introduction In colonial Canada, the statistics for the Indigenous prison population have developed as follows. Over a ten-year period between March 2009 and March 2018, the Indigenous prison population increased by 42.8% compared to a less than 1% overall growth during the same period (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). In early 2018, Indigenous inmates represented 28% of the total federal prison population compared to 4.3% of the total Canadian population (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). For Indigenous women, the situation is much worse. Over the same ten-year period, Indigenous women in prison increased by 60% while representing 40% of the total women’s prison population (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). This means that Indigenous women representation in prison increased by 25% in comparison to the overall

N. Sayers (*) Sault Ste. Marie, ON, Canada © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_3

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Indigenous prison population. Indigenous women make up 4% of the total female population in Canada (Arriagada, 2016). Then by 2020, the Indigenous prison population surpassed 30% with Indigenous women accounting for 42% of the women prison population (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2020). Abolition has a long history that locates itself in anti-slavery movements and in anti-colonial movements embedded in a Black history of resistance (Saleh-Hanna, 2015). In her work, Viviane Saleh-Hanna (2015) calls on the abolitionists of today to name racism as central to the criminal justice system. She links the modern-day criminal justice system to continuance and practice of slavery through the “institutionalization of White supremacy” (Saleh-Hanna, 2015) and she writes: In the quest to locate guilt within colonized individuals, crimes of enslavement within plantations, chain gangs, reservations and penitentiaries are shielded from moral interrogation while processes of confinement (whom, how and for how long) conveniently take precedence. These shifts in language and process, more aptly named ‘reform’—and in this paper identified through structural shape-shifting—are necessary, not for the greater good of society, but for the institutionalization of White supremacy. (Saleh-­ Hanna, 2015, para 9)

It is within this context of Saleh-Hanna’s connection between white supremacy and the criminal justice system, and the reality of the increasing Indigenous women’s prison population, that I position this chapter. This chapter is an analysis of Canada’s current restorative justice model that critiques the application of restorative justice in the lives of Indigenous people, namely Indigenous women. I aim to provide a different way to think about restorative justice through prison abolition. To begin, I outline my first experience as a volunteer in a northern Ontario prison to introduce Canada’s restorative justice system to the reader. Then, I outline my experience in the criminal justice system as a criminalised Indigenous woman to illustrate how Canada’s restorative justice system operates in context. Finally, I outline my journey to become an Indigenous lawyer and how Canada’s restorative justice system operates in other contexts (namely, regulation of lawyers) to position the restorative justice

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movement in an anti-colonial lens. In the end, I call on others to reevaluate colonial Canada’s restorative justice movement and invite others into the prison abolition movement. Throughout this paper, and what makes this discussion necessary, is my own story. At the time of authoring this paper, I was unable to locate scholarship that utilised the lived experience of Indigenous women in prison while also employing conventional legal education and experiences in becoming a lawyer under colonial law. There may have been other Indigenous women who were lawyers or are lawyers who write about re-imagining a new system (Monture-Angus, 1995). The difference is that these works do not position the lived experience of a criminalised Indigenous woman at the centre (Monture-Angus, 1995). I aim to begin filling this gap. When I think about the cases, reports, legislation, and policies, I cite to centre my own experiences within the criminal justice system, and I question how my own stories fit into the larger narrative about what restorative justice means for Indigenous people, especially Indigenous women. In the decisions I cite, for example, it is Indigenous women and their femininity that is largely erased. Yet, it is through these cases, reports, legislation, and policies that I am reminded of the women that are impacted by such narratives, like Jaime Tanis Gladue, the Indigenous woman whose reality informed the R v Gladue decision (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; Supreme Court of Canada (SCC), 1999) that informs the Gladue sentencing principles. I remember and honour these women’s stories by telling my own story. Saleh-Hanna (2015) writes about how colonial language positions racialisation as happening to colonised/imprisoned/enslaved bodies and diverts attention away from the bodies of colonisers who are racialised into whiteness. That is, instead of focusing on the colonisers, colonial language focuses on the Other. Informed by her work, I want to write about how colonial laws operate in a similar way. The colonial laws, or the current restorative justice regime, operate to position criminalisation as something happening to colonised/imprisoned/enslaved bodies, diverting attention away from how colonial laws work to support the institutionalisation of white supremacy—using seemingly harmless colonial laws to imprison and relegate Indigenous bodies into criminalised

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spaces. My lived experience helps position the context for those unaware of Canada’s restorative justice system from a non-legal perspective. These experiences, for me, represent my understanding of restorative justice, how I come to understand restorative justice and what restorative justice means for me: the complete abolition of prisons or the abolition of the prison industrial complex (PIC), which is a series of systems designed to channel certain bodies into prison and the criminalisation of these bodies from birth until death (Saleh-Hanna, 2015). These experiences are the stories I carry with me and the stories I seek to share here in this chapter. These experiences and these stories are healing for me and I hope they are healing for communities impacted by these systems.

Volunteering in Prison Restorative justice, according to the Correctional Services Canada (2014), which is the organisation that oversees federally regulated prisons in Canada, focuses on repairing harm (i.e., crime) done to communities, people, and relationships. I position this definition in the following discussion through my understandings of restorative justice as an Indigenous woman with experience in the criminal justice system and interrogate what restorative justice means in the context of Gladue sentencing principles (SCC, 1999). Gladue sentencing principles account for the unique history of Indigenous people in Canada, with a focus on the trauma experienced by Indigenous people as a result of Canadian policies, to address the over-incarceration of Indigenous people in Canadian prisons (SCC, 1999). These principles are defined through a series of case law interpreting a sentencing provision in Canada’s Criminal Code, RSC, 1985 c. C-46 which begin with the Supreme Court of Canada’s decision, R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688. As an Indigenous woman in colonial Canada, my parents tried very hard to introduce my sisters and me to our culture. We practiced culture and ceremony through various traditional practices and one included traditional dancing. I danced traditionally up until I was about in my late teens. The most recent time I can recall dancing is also the time I danced in the local remand centre (a jail where prisoners are held waiting new

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court dates or a hearing date to discuss their release). On this day, it was during the summer, and the sun beamed down onto the open area of the Algoma Treatment and Remand Centre (ATRC). The drummers sat around the drum, singing and sharing their songs. All of the drummers were Indigenous men, as with most drum groups at powwows, save for the occasional back-up singers who are usually women and who provide support to the main singers. The men at the ATRC were separated from the women. The provincial Ministry in Ontario, Canada, responsible for correctional centres is the Ministry of Community and Correctional Services (the Ministry) (Ministry of Solicitor General, 2016). The Ministry’s current Indigenous Spirituality Policy (the Spirituality Policy) provides Indigenous prisoners (i.e., First Nation, Métis, or Inuit prisoners) or prisoners with “sincerely held beliefs” the opportunity to participate in Indigenous spirituality (Ministry of Solicitor General, 2017). A sincerely held belief, in a human rights context, includes a belief that is currently held, and an individual’s own past practices do not account for current belief systems since such beliefs can change over time (Supreme Court of Canada, 2004; Syndicat Northcrest v Amselem, [2004] SCC 47). At the drafting of this chapter, it is unclear whether the “sincerely held beliefs” concept is included in the restorative justice context with the understanding that not all Indigenous people have had the same access to cultural practices and teachings throughout the years, placing limits on restorative justice practices in prisons. The Spirituality Policy does not account for differences among groups and individuals, including geographical or territorial differences. For example, the ATRC is located in Anishinaabe territory within the Robinson-Huron Treaty territory (Garden River, n.d.). While the Spirituality Policy accounts for cultural differences, it assumes that all available Elders or Native Inmate Liaison Workers possess the same traditional knowledge. In other words, the Policy adopts a pan-Indigenous approach to Indigenous Spirituality. Further, the Policy limits how and when an Elder or a Native Inmate Liaison Worker may visit. For instance, the Ministry notes that the superintendent controls when Elder visits take place but notes that these visits are in addition to the Visiting Policy (Ministry of Solicitor General, 2017). These visits are not treated as normal or regular visits. Most limitations on the spiritual

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practices also focus on safety and security, which assumes the perspective that these practices, without the proper supervision, can be and are dangerous in whole or in part. Other limitations relate to the availability of Elders or traditional healers, but this availability is impacted by territorial and geographical limitations of the locations of these remand centres. To locate the ATRC in the geographical/territorial context and in relation to my own community: ATRC is located in the northern part of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada. If I wanted to visit ATRC on my own from Garden River First Nation, which is my First Nation, I would have to arrange for my own transportation or receive a ride from a family member or friend. When I think back to my first time entering the ATRC, I remember how heavy the doors felt, looked, and sounded when one of the ATRC workers guided us through the maze of hallways. Just prior to entering the closed-off “open” area, one of ATRC’s workers steered the members of the dance troupe which included myself, through those hallways and through each door leading to another hallway or room—before opening or entering into another hallway or room, the door behind us had to be closed before we could open the other door; it was very systematic. Each time the worker opened and closed such a door, the door sounded like it weighed a ton. The worker led us to a room where we could change into our traditional regalia—we were there to showcase and share traditional dancing with the prisoners at ATRC. When we walked into the “open” area, the only shade was from the cement walls which stood 10–15 feet high. Barbed wire fencing ran along the top edges of the walls. On that day, it was hot outside; I can remember the burning sun. I do not remember how green or brown the grass was surrounding the ATRC but that might be because there was not too much grass anywhere nearby. When the drummers started singing, we entered the area. As I recall entering the space, I remember the drum’s beat was faster than I normally danced to. At the time, I was a northern traditional dancer who travelled to powwows in the north-easterly region of North America—Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan in the United States. I danced primarily to contemporary northern style drumming. On that day, I learned that this drum’s beat was old-style northern; if you listen carefully, you can tell the region the drum comes from.

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When I think back to this day and this memory, I often wonder who taught these men to drum? Where did that person come from? Then, I recall one of the men coming over to ask me, eager to learn, “Why do you dance in one spot like that?” I forget what I said to him, but I remember feeling honoured in being there and helping other Indigenous people learn about or participate in their culture. Thinking back to this memory, I do not know where the men were from or if the men came from the territory. This also speaks to the geographical and territorial limits of the Spirituality Policy that outlines how the Ministry provides or makes available traditional spiritual practices. Individuals within these centres who request traditional spiritual practices must accept the only available practices (Sapers, 2017). The people inside these prisons are often displaced from their communities for a myriad of reasons from their communities and/or forced to move to urban areas (Birrell, 2018). This displacement is mirrored in centres like the ATRC, when these individuals are forced to accept whatever services are made available, of course, that is if these services are available at all, subject to limitations on these practices (Ministry of Solicitor General, 2017). This is not the first time our colonial governments have placed limitations on Indigenous traditional spiritual practices. This time, the limitations are subtle, less obvious, and more likely to be accepted because the assumption is that people in prison, regardless of their circumstances, deserve to be punished. Previous instances where our colonial government placed limitations on Indigenous traditional spiritual practices include outlawing traditional practices under the Indian Act, RSC 1985, c I-5 (Gadacz, 2018) and punishing children in Indian Residential Schools (Truth & Reconciliation Commission, 2015). For these men, whom I shared my traditional dancing with that day, it was an institution that took away their culture and traditions, namely the Indian residential schools, and it is now an institution that tries to bring it back to them, namely the prison system.

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Canada’s Restorative Justice System The programme I participated in—as someone who would come in to share Indigenous practices with prisoners—would fall under the heading of restorative justice. I was doing restorative justice. I do recognise and value that some individuals in prison may have benefitted from similar programmes to the one I used to participate in. For example, in R v Armitage, 2015 ONCJ 64 (Ontario Court of Justice, 2015), Justice Nakatsuru writes about Jesse Armitage (the Indigenous person being sentenced) taking the initiative to request being sent to another treatment centre because of the “help” available at the centre, although the decision does not define what is meant by “help” (Ontario Court of Justice, 2015). Yet, nobody questioned the reasons why this help was not available prior to his subsequent arrests and breaches of release conditions (Ontario Court of Justice, 2015). When institutions and texts discuss Indigenous justice, there is an underlying assumption that Indigenous justice is “to restore the peace and equilibrium within the community, and to reconcile the accused with his or her own conscience and with the individual or family who has been wronged” (Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission, 2001; emphasis added). In other words, there is an assumption that Indigenous justice is restorative justice or a justice to restore peace and equilibrium to a community, to reconcile any relationship between the individual accused of criminal offences and the victim(s) of said criminal offences. Correctional Services Canada (2016) sees restorative justice as a way to “meet the needs of people faced with crime and conflict in an inclusive and meaningful way”. This links back to the earlier notion that Correctional Services Canada (2014) sees restorative justice to repair harm done to communities, relationships, and people from crime. There is also a heightened focus of restorative justice as a means to highlight the voices and experiences of victims, which is a move away from the focus on the other party, namely, the person charged with a criminal offence (Correctional Services Canada, 2014). These two ideas create a bifurcation of the intent of restorative justice—if we understand it as an Indigenous justice system—where the former acknowledges harm done

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to community as a whole (which includes the criminalised individual), while the latter centres the experiences of victims. A prime example that demonstrates a focus on victim’s rights as opposed to prisoner’s rights includes the 2015 amending legislation entitled, An Act to Enact the Canadian Victims Bill of Rights and to Amend Certain Acts (Department of Justice, 2015). This Canadian Victims Bill of Rights amended sentencing provisions within the Criminal Code, RSC 1985, c C-46 (Department of Justice, 2015). Specifically, this Victims Bill of Rights amended Section 718.2(e). After the amendment and as it currently stands, section 718.2(e) now reads: A court that imposes a sentence shall also take into consideration […] all available sanctions, other than imprisonment, that are reasonable in the circumstances and consistent with the harm done to victims or to the community should be considered for all offenders, with particular attention to the circumstances of Aboriginal offenders. (Emphasis added)

The recent amendments reflect a growing concern with victim’s rights at the centre of restorative justice and with responses to crime as opposed to centring the concern, rights, and responsibilities of all parties involved in building community and in repairing the harm caused by crime in our communities. In essence, this is a complete contradiction of restorative justice which focuses not just on victims but harm done to community and other people affected by crime, including people, like Jesse Armitage, who are only in the position to ask for help once they have been criminalised. In 1999, prior to the 2015 amendments to the Criminal Code, Canada’s highest court translated the intent of section 718.2(e) in the context of sentencing Aboriginal persons. Jamie Tanis Gladue, a Cree woman born in 1976, was charged with second degree murder after she ran towards her boyfriend with “a large knife in her hand” and stabbed him in the heart (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). There was evidence that Jamie’s boyfriend had previously abused her, but the trial judge did not find Jamie was “a battered or fearful wife” (SCC, 1999). Following a preliminary hearing and jury selection, Jamie pled guilty to manslaughter. At sentencing, Jamie apologised for what happened to her boyfriend’s

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family and she indicated that she did not intend to kill her boyfriend. However, also during sentencing, Jamie’s lawyer did not make submissions that Jamie was an “aboriginal offender” despite the trial judge asking if Jamie was an aboriginal person and her affirmative reply to the trial judge’s inquiries (SCC, 1999). The trial judge’s inquiry about Jamie’s connection to indigeneity did not end there. The trial judge asked Jamie’s lawyer about the community Jamie grew up in and the lawyer responded to the question, “it’s just a regular community” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688). Crown counsel, or the lawyer representing the state’s interests, argued for a sentence of three to five years; meanwhile Jamie’s lawyer argued for a suspended or conditional sentence. Jamie was sentenced to three years with a ten-year weapons prohibition (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). Jamie appealed her sentence to the British Columbia Court of Appeal. During sentencing, the trial judge weighed several factors; however, the trial judge relied too heavily on the fact Jamie lived in “an urban area off-­ reserve and not ‘within the aboriginal community as such’” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). The trial judge did not rely on any “special circumstances arising from [Jamie’s] aboriginal status that he should take into consideration” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688). Consequently, the trial judge failed to consider Jamie’s remorse and significant attempts to rehabilitate herself (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). The Supreme Court of Canada (SCC) (1999) only focused on one ground: “[T]he trial judge failed to give appropriate consideration to [Jamie’s] circumstances as an aboriginal person” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688). On appeal, Jamie wanted to include new evidence respecting her attempts to maintain connection to her Indigenous culture and heritage, including attempting to apply for full status; her boyfriend’s mother even attempted to help Jamie obtain such status. The Court of Appeal unanimously concluded the trial judge’s conclusion that section 718.2(e) did not apply to Jamie because she was living in an urban area off reserve. The majority in the Court of Appeal held that “it could not be said that the sentence, if a fit one for a non-aboriginal person, would not also be fit for an aboriginal person” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999).

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In the dissent, Justice Rowles held that “s. 718.2(e) was designed to remedy the excessive use of incarceration, generally, and the disproportionately high number of aboriginal people who are imprisoned, in particular” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). Specifically, Justice Rowles’ statement represented two distinct but connected presumptions: (1) there is an excessive reliance on incarceration as a form of punishment; and (2) the people most affected by increased reliance on incarceration are Indigenous persons. These two presumptions are often taken for granted and accepted as facts or truths, but the presumptions in response to increasing incarceration rates of Indigenous peoples are rarely centred. More precisely, these presumptions are rarely questioned. The consideration that Jamie should not receive benefit from the particular sentencing provision enacted to address Indigenous prisoners’ unique history highlights an effect of colonialism: displacement. If only she had been living in a community and not in the city, and if only she had practiced her culture more. For Jamie (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688), the SCC judgment was delivered by Justices Cory and Iacobucci. The SCC held that section 718.2(e) (the Section) is remedial in nature and that the section attempts to address a serious problem: the overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prisons (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). Section 718.2(e) stresses other kinds of sentencing, namely not relying on incarceration. However, it is not clear if remand is considered a form of sentencing as defined under section 718.2(e) when days spent in remand are accounted for at time of sentencing. In other words, questions remain as to how courts and relevant institutions view being held in remand centres, with access to cultural services, and whether such is a form of restorative justice, further problematising the Gladue sentencing regime—when does the circle of injustice end? Presumably, following Jamie’s decision, the effect of the Gladue sentencing principles would have resulted in fewer Indigenous people being imprisoned. Yet, a decade after Gladue, the SCC released another decision, R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13 (SCC, 2012). In the majority decision, Justice Lebel writes:

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Over a decade has passed since this Court issued its judgment in Gladue. As the statistics indicate, s. 718.2 (e) of the Criminal Code has not had a discernible impact on the overrepresentation of Aboriginal people in the criminal justice system. (See Canadian Lawyer, 2012)

The Indigenous prison population at the time of Ipeelee was at 22% (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012). In 2018, the statistics on Indigenous prison populations put that number at 28% (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). The numbers have grown over 50% since March 2005, a few years after Gladue but prior to Ipeelee (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). Reports indicate that the numbers failed to improve due to an uneven application of Gladue sentencing principles as well as the lack of involvement of Elders (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). By 2020, the Indigenous prison population surpassed 30% with Indigenous women accounting for 42% of the women prison population (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2020). In Ipeelee, the decision involved two appeals by two men with similar issues and histories; their names are Manasie Ipeelee and Frank Ralph Ladue (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012). Both men lost their mothers at a young age in violent or tragic deaths, with Frank losing both his parents at a young age (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13). Both men had a history of alcoholism, committing crime from a young age, committing violent crimes including sexual assaults later on in their lives, and both violated their long-term supervision orders (LTSO) (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012). Prior to the SCC appeal, at the Ontario Court of Appeal, Justice Sharpe, noted the sentencing judge’s dismissal of Manasie’s Indigenous status but weighed this factor against the violation of an order, characterising this violation as a “serious breach of a vital condition of [the order]” (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13). After conceding the sentencing judge’s failure to consider Manasie’s Indigenous status, Justice Sharpe simply recommended to correctional authorities “to make every effort to provide [Manasie] with appropriate Aboriginal-oriented assistance” (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13), thus dismissing Manasie’s appeal and agreeing with the lower court. The lower court held that the Indigenous status “had already been considered during sentencing for the 1999 offence giving rise to the [violation]” (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012).

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On the issue of Indigenous status, the lower court held that the importance of the Indigenous status is “diminished” (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012) when weighed against the protection of the public. This kind of holding diminishes the importance of the Indigenous status and prioritises public safety over Gladue sentencing principles without regard to any other considerations. Suddenly, the importance of their Indigenous status in the prison system becomes irrelevant. Regarding Frank Ladue’s violations related to breach of release conditions (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012), the sentencing judge in the lower court, similar to Manasie’s sentencing decision, focused on isolation as the most important factor, noting Frank’s Indigenous status had no impact (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13). In the British Columbia Court of Appeal, the majority sentenced Frank to one year and acknowledged the error that the sentencing judge made by simply referring to the Indigenous status but not considering it at sentencing (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13). While the decisions involving Frank’s violations consider his Indigenous status, there is an assumption by sentencing judges that simply writing about Indigenous status and detailing the history of an Indigenous prisoner will satisfy the requirements in Gladue sentencing principles; however, the SCC held that courts must go beyond “mere reference to the provision” (R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688; SCC, 1999). Similarly, a court cannot just refer to an Indigenous person’s identity, history, or trajectory to the criminal justice system; the sentence must substantively consider the impact of the sentence on the individual. The SCC in Ipeelee also held, in regards to considering and weighing all sentencing factors, “The duty of a sentencing judge is to apply all the principles mandated by ss 718.1 and 718.2 of the Criminal Code in order to devise a sentence that furthers the overall objectives of sentencing” (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012). This includes considering Indigenous status. Though the SCC in Ipeelee denounced the lower courts’ failures to consider Indigenous status, the majority regrettably held sentencing was an appropriate forum to deal with the overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prisons (R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13; SCC, 2012). Justice Lebel writes, “The sentencing process is therefore an appropriate forum for addressing Aboriginal overrepresentation in Canada’s prisons” (SCC, 2012). This kind of perspective ignores an entire community’s

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responsibility to repair the harm done by crime—a product of colonialism—that impacts everyone in a community. This is the essence of restorative justice, if it is truly an Indigenous justice system: to repair the harm that crime contributes to community, relationships, and people. These kinds of perspectives (i.e., sentencing is an appropriate avenue to deal with the overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prisons) sadly only serve to legitimise the prison system and the entire prison industrial complex without questioning the presumptions about incarceration. Again, Justice Rowles highlighted these presumptions in the dissent at the appeal level in R v Gladue (SCC, 1999). In validating the system that causes the problem of overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prison (i.e., sentencing and incarceration), the majority in Ipeelee (SCC, 2012) simply refers to this fact, accepts it, and moves onto legitimise the prison system and its effects on Indigenous people’s lives, including the effect of over-reliance on incarceration. In light of these allegedly progressive decisions, I find it troubling that colonial governments have long recognised the problem of the overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prison; yet, these same governments ignore how their own policies in prisons and related institutions or systems impact (or more appropriately, do not impact) the overrepresentation of Indigenous people in prisons. Indigenous prison populations have only increased. Institutional policies limit how and when traditional spiritual practices take place and progressive policies are passed off as the only solution.

Becoming an Indigenous Lawyer Following the trial for the murder of Helen Betty Osborn, a young Indigenous woman found beaten to death beyond recognition, and after the death of an Indigenous leader following an encounter with a Winnipeg Police Officer, the Manitoba Government established the Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission (the Commission) (Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission, 2001). The Manitoba Government tasked the Commission with developing an action plan to help implement the Aboriginal Justice Inquiry recommendations; the

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recommendations were issued in a 1991 report (Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission, 2001). The Commission’s report canvassed a range of topics including the role of Elders and healers in a prison context. On the role of Elders and healers in Indigenous communities, the Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission (2001) wrote: Although the role of elders and healers came under strong attack as a result of government policy, elders still have a place of prominence within Aboriginal communities and there still are people within Aboriginal communities with knowledge and training in the traditions of Aboriginal healing. The role of both elders and healers within Aboriginal societies is still very important and many Aboriginal people still go to them for advice, assistance and treatment, sometimes even in conjunction with treatment they may be receiving from medically trained professionals.

As I outlined at the beginning, the role of Elders and healers are limited through policy. More appropriately, the government has never stopped criminalising the role of Elders and healers in our communities. That is, the Elders and healers are affected by the policies of prisons and related institutions, especially when territorial and geographical displacement of these institutions likely prevent Elders and healers from engaging in traditional spiritual practices—the same displacement, an ongoing by-­ product of colonialism, Justice Lebel mentioned in Ipeelee (SCC, 2012). Still, by the very nature of incarceration, the ideals of restorative justice could never be achieved especially if we continue to rely on incarceration as a form of punishment for behaviour our society condemns (see Wood, 2015 for similar conclusions in other jurisdictions, namely Australia, New Zealand, United States, and the United Kingdom). When I was 18 years old, I would return to the remand centre, not as a dancer but as someone who was experiencing violence which resulted in my own criminalisation. During my time in this remand centre, I was on 24-hour cell watch. I did not have access to any of the cultural programmes. When I applied to become a lawyer in Ontario, Canada, in 2016, I had great fears that I would have to return to a time in my life that required me to recall the violent memories of my time as a young Indigenous woman who was also criminalised. The process to become a

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lawyer in Ontario is not very transparent, especially if you are the first in your family to go to law school. In late 2016, I applied to the Law Society of Ontario (LSO), who regulates and oversees licencing of lawyers in Ontario, Canada. Nearly six months after I applied, the LSO informed me that I was under a good character investigation as a result of my self-disclosures to the LSO. At the time I applied, the LSO stated that any affirmative answers to the good character questions required relevant or supporting documentation, but it did not provide any information as to what those documentations included. Nearly nine months after the investigation started, the LSO closed my good character investigation. I had submitted nearly 20 disclosure requests and over 50 reference letters (the LSO only requested three). During that time, I submitted recommendations to a provincial bar association to amend the good character process including its form, as a result of my own experiences. This resulted in the LSO producing a final report which suggests that self-identified Indigenous licensees answer good character questions in the affirmative at a higher rate (Law Society of Ontario, 2019). The LSO does not disclose the difference in these rates from non-Indigenous licensees (Law Society of Ontario, 2019).

Conclusion My time at the remand centre resulted in absolute discharges which means that no criminal record and no disclosure of these charges by policing agencies after a year of the final outcome. However, as a result of the LSO’s good character form and its questions, I had to disclose nearly decade-old (at the time) charges. This is the effect of colonial laws or how the current restorative justice regime, operates to position criminalisation as something happening to colonised /imprisoned/enslaved bodies, diverting attention away from how colonial laws work to support the institutionalisation of white supremacy. The problem was never the good character form; the problem was always the colonised/imprisoned. We must recognise and name these practices as abusive, similar to Saleh-­ Hanna’s connections between white supremacy and the criminal justice system. The reforms to Canada’s criminal justice system are just that,

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institutionalisation of white supremacy. And, failure to name these abusive practices is a failure to acknowledge these stories, my stories but more importantly, the stories of Jamie and Helen.

References Aboriginal Justice Implementation Commission. (2001). Final report. Retrieved from http://www.ajic.mb.ca/volumel/chapter2.html Arriagada, P. (2016). First nations, Métis and Inuit women. Retrieved from https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/pub/89-503-x/2015001/article/14313eng.htm Birrell, S. (2018). Sending Josephine home. Briar Patch. Retrieved from https:// briarpatchmagazine.com/articles/view/sending-josephine-home Canadian Lawyer. (2012, 23 March). Gladue principles not being met: SCC. News. Retrieved from https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/ general/gladue-principles-not-being-met-scc/271300 Correctional Services Canada. (2014). What is restorative justice? Retrieved from https://www.csc-scc.gc.ca/restorative-justice/003005-0007-eng.shtml Correctional Services Canada. (2016). Restorative justice: A worthy approach. Retrieved from https://www.csc-scc.gc.ca/restorative-justice/index-eng.shtml Department of Justice. (2015). Canadian Victims Bill of Rights, S.C. 2015, c. 13, s. 2. Retrieved from https://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/acts/c-23.7/page-1.html Gadacz, R. (2018). Potlatch. Retrieved from https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/potlatch Garden River. (n.d.). Treaties. Retrieved from http://www.gardenriver.org/ treaties.php Law Society of Ontario. (2019). Review of the good character process. Retrieved from https://lawsocietyontario.azureedge.net/media/lso/media/about/convocation/2019/convocation-feb-2019-profregcommitteereport.pdf Ministry of Solicitor General. (2016). Correctional services. Retrieved from http://www.mcscs.jus.gov.on.ca/english/corr_serv/AboutCorrectional Services/CS_main.html Ministry of Solicitor General. (2017). Policies and guidelines: Indigenous spirituality. Retrieved from https://www.mcscs.jus.gov.on.ca/english/Corrections/ Policiesandguidelines/CorrectionsIndigenousSpiritualityPolicy.html Monture-Angus, P. (1995). Thunder in my soul: A Mohawk woman speaks. Halifax, Nova Scotia: Fernwood.

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Office of the Correctional Investigator. (2018). Office of the correctional investigator annual report 2017–2018: Indigenous corrections. Retrieved from http:// www.oci-bec.gc.ca/cnt/rpt/annrpt/annrpt20172018-eng.aspx Office of the Correctional Investigator. (2020). Indigenous People in Federal Custody Surpasses 30% Correctional Investigator Issues Statement and Challenge. Retrieved from https://www.ocibec.gc.ca/cnt/comm/press/ press20200121-eng.aspx Ontario Court of Justice. (2015, 11 February). R. v. Armitage, 2015 ONCJ 64. Retrieved from https://www.canlii.org/en/on/oncj/doc/2015/ 2015oncj64/2015oncj64.pdf Saleh-Hanna, V. (2015). Black feminist hauntology: Rememory the ghosts of abolition? Abolitionism, XII. Retrieved from https://journals.openedition. org/champpenal/9168#tocto1n10 Sapers, H. (2017). Corrections in Ontario: Directions for reform. Retrieved from https://www.mcscs.jus.gov.on.ca/sites/default/files/content/mcscs/docs/ Corrections%20in%20Ontario%2C%20Directions%20for%20Reform.pdf Supreme Court of Canada. (1999, 23 April). R v Gladue, [1999] 1 SCR 688. Retrieved from https://scc-csc.lexum.com/scc-csc/scc-csc/en/ item/1695/index.do Supreme Court of Canada. (2004, 30 June). Syndicat Northcrest v Amselem, 2004, SCC 47. Retrieved from https://scc-csc.lexum.com/scc-csc/scc-csc/en/ item/2161/index.do Supreme Court of Canada. (2012, 23 March). R v Ipeelee, 2012 SCC 13. Retrieved from https://scc-csc.lexum.com/scc-csc/scc-csc/en/item/8000/index.do Truth & Reconciliation Commission. (2015). The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada Volume 1. “Canada’s Residential Schools: The History, Part 2: 1939 to 2000”. Retrieved from http://nctr.ca/assets/ reports/Final%20Reports/Volume_1_History_Part_2_English_Web.pdf Wood, W. R. (2015). Why restorative justice will not reduce incarceration. The British Journal of Criminology, 55(5), 883–900. Retrieved from https://doi. org/10.1093/bjc/azu108

4 Colonial Policies and Indigenous Women in Canada Dawn M. Smith

This chapter is dedicated to the beautiful and strong Nuu-chah-nulth women (listed and unlisted), whose lives were violently impacted by colonialism. Your memory lives on in the hearts and minds of those who love you forever. Remembering you with a smile, gratitude, love, and respect: Martha Smith (Ehattesaht) Clara Mae Rush (Uchucklesaht) Pauline Johnson (Mowachaht) Karen Amos (Hesquiaht) Laurie Johnson (Mowachat) Kyla John (Ehattesaht) Marilyn Amos McCallum (Hesquiaht) Bonnie Amos (Hesquiaht) Patricia John (Ehattesaht) Georgina John (Ehattesaht)

D. M. Smith (*) Camosun College, Victoria, BC, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_4

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Introduction First Nations, Inuit, and Métis women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people in Canada have been the targets of violence for far too long. This truth is undeniable. The fact that this National Inquiry is happening now doesn’t mean that Indigenous Peoples waited this long to speak up; it means it took this long for Canada to listen. (National Inquiry into Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls (NIMMIWG), 2019, p. 1)

In a YouTube interview, Mississauga Nishnaabeg scholar Leanne Simpson (2016) empathically notes that as an Indigenous woman who is NOT murdered or missing, she has a responsibility to speak up to critical issues that impact Indigenous women and girls in Canada. I too, as a Nuu-chah-nulth (NCN) woman, feel a responsibility to Indigenous women, particularly women who are incarcerated in this colonised country called Canada. You might be wondering who I am to take such an important matter and write about it? Good question to ask! One I have reflected on for months prior to putting pen to paper. The journey to learn about why Indigenous women end up behind bars has been a journey filled with yaa-yuk-mis (love-pain), but also healing. Never having been incarcerated, I humbly acknowledge the learning journey and recognise that I neither speak for nor am I writing about, but instead hope to honour Indigenous women, incarcerated and/or violently impacted by colonialism in Canada. This chapter begins with a long-standing NCN protocol of introducing one’s self, especially as it relates to the work ahead. Situating self is an exercise that can provide an understanding of who I am and why I am interested in incarcerated Indigenous women. Further, a closer examination of Canadian policies and practices in relation to Indigenous peoples will aid the contextualisation of incarceration Indigenous women. The chapter concludes with concerns about the growing number of Indigenous women incarcerated and the urgent need to look more closely at the root cause. It will take more than my voice, and the voice of incarcerated and formally incarcerated Indigenous women, to prevent future women from landing in jail. Society is led to believe that Indigenous women brought these problems onto themselves (Good, 2018); this is far from true,

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Indigenous women are not the problem. Senator Murray Sinclair (Ojibway), former Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) commissioner, echoed similar sentiment in a public talk I attended at the University of Victoria in 2011. He ended his talk stating that this “Indian problem” is in fact a Canadian problem, emphasising the work to be done in deconstructing what is known about Indigenous women. To decolonise hearts and minds is hard work, but work that must be done.

Situating Self In A Recognition of being: Reconstructing Native womanhood, Anderson and Lawrence (2003), a Cree/Métis scholar, emphasises the importance of Indigenous women knowing who they are and where they have come from. This is true, especially when you want to know where you are going (speaking from experience). Coming to know who I am is a lifelong journey, one filled with yaa-yuk-miss or love-pain (‘inseparable two’, a NCN teaching). These NCN teachings help guide one through life emphasising the importance of knowing oneself in relation to hishuk-ist-tsawalk (everything is one/connected); this includes family, culture and territory. Who am I? This is a big question, and something I have come to understand over time and with the help of family cultural teachings,1 as such I stand much firmer in who I am, as a ʔiiḥatisaqsup (woman of ʔiiḥatisatḥ), on this island now called Vancouver Island. Within the ʔiiḥatisatḥ confederacy, I am from činixint, and more specifically from tiławis tacumł (house of grey whales). My family name is sii-yaa-ilth-supt, a name given to me, in a feast, by my uncle of Hesquiaht. It is a name that has significant meaning to family and can be translated to mean “having a vision for the people guided by the ancestors.” I received this name is 2012, as I embarked upon my doctoral studies, prompting me to recognise the inherit responsibilities of living up to such a name.  Family cultural teachings arise from my Master’s in Indigenous Governance where I did a community governance project on hereditary chiefs; a topic that belongs within families where cultural teachings derive. 1

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I did not always grow up with a firm understanding of who I was or where I came from as an Indigenous person. As I grow older, I recognise where I have come from in terms of life experiences, particularly those tainted by colonialism. I am someone who grew up with and without family, territory and cultural teachings. Over the years, I have to come to learn the role of NCN women was/is a highly respected role, particularly as knowledge keeper of family cultural teachings (FCT). It was the women’s role to ensure that these teachings were passed down from one generation to the next. Men relied upon their wives or women relatives to assist in ceremonies, such as naming(s) or memorials, where FCT and histories were recited. Roles were equal with each understanding what was required of them in terms of responsibility. More specifically, women were the primary parent for raising children while men performed important duties such as whaling, fishing and hunting. I came to learn more about this in my twenties, as my great granduncle spoke of NCN roles and responsibilities prior to colonialism. NCN roles were not gendered, but instead strength of women and men were acknowledged and drawn upon. However, with colonialism came great change in our understandings of these important family roles and responsibilities; something I also came to learn later. Going back to my childhood, I now realised that my great grandparents took me in to spare me from the Sixties Scoop.2 They raised me and many other grandchildren, with FCT on the territory with the knowledge of oppression. They would speak about the “Whiteman” and government who disrespect our peoples, territories and the right to be who we are, as ʔiiḥatisatḥ. That is something I took with me when I left the comfort of home (ʔiiḥatisatḥ). The family did not want me to attend residential school and sent me to live more permanently with my parents in Coast Salish territories. Having been raised with FCT, as well as with clean and sober family members who provided me with safety, this changed upon my arrival to the concrete jungle. My mother was living with a man who later became my dad; both my parents have since died, and too young at that. I do not want to speak disrespectfully of my late parents, but to only share aspects  Sixties Scoop is a time in Canadian history where Indigenous children were stolen from mothers, communities and adopted out to non-Indigenous families. 2

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of history in terms of family, culture and colonialism. My parents were survivors of residential school, and unequipped to raise children as they suffered with alcoholism. Love was definitely present, however family dysfunction and violence would become normalised over time. After being raised on the territory with love and family cultural teachings, the transition to being with my parents in the city was a hard transition. I went from structure and stability to living with parents whose pain and suffering was overwhelming. During those times they drank, I would hear stories of residential school. I remember mom saying that she did not fit in either the Whiteman’s or Indigenous world(s). She was strapped with a belt for speaking her NCN language and taught to be a “proper” young lady (taught to cook, sew and clean). She said, “I was not White enough for the Whiteman’s world nor was I ‘Indian’ enough to go home” (pers. Comm.). She felt that way because she lost her language and culture being at a residential school. At the time, I did not make the connection between my parent’s residential school experiences and the poverty, neglect and abuse I endured growing up with them. My parents struggled to hold down good jobs, forcing us to live on welfare at times or experience extreme bouts of neglect and violence where the police and social workers became involved. Life was out of control with predatory adults inflicting abuses (sexual, physical, mental and emotional) that would leave not only scars, but also messages that told me I “asked for it” or that it was my fault. As a child, I roamed the streets of Hastings and Main (in Vancouver) with my parents, staying at places like the Balmoral or Ivanhoe hotels. I remember when we moved to live more permanently in Victoria, my parents drank under the Johnson Street Bridge with friends and likely family. What I remember the most about those days is the question I asked myself “when would I be down here drinking?” There are childhood stories I could share that would make your stomachs turn, but I will not. Understanding where you come from not only draws on memory, but strength and courage to heal and move forward. To understand myself better I needed to know where I had come from to know where I am going. Embarking upon this journey to learn about Indigenous women and incarceration has been emotional and painful, prompting me to take action, to delve in, learn and give back. Until

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recently, I was unaware of the statistics of Indigenous women incarcerated, murdered and/or missing. It has been an eye-opening experience revealing stories of truth, oppression, violence and resilience of Indigenous women. Having made the connection between my own story and statistics of Indigenous women, I recognise the responsibility to use my voice to create an understanding of Indigenous peoples, particularly Indigenous women incarcerated. There is a sense of urgency growing inside me, as the number of Indigenous women incarcerated, murdered or missing continues to rise. In Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered Indigenous sisters, Anderson, Campbell, and Belcourt’s (2018) prologue Walking dreams: Reflections on walking with our sisters, states: In my dream, the one I had before Edmonton, I was standing in a big long lodge, the kind you see with longhouses or Midewewin lodges. There were women standing all around the edge, shoulder to shoulder. About three rows of us standing like that, looking at each other, wondering what to do. Suddenly a drum appeared in the middle, and then some men appeared and started singing. Just then Elder Marie Campbell, who was standing beside me, walked out and began to dance with her hands faced upwards. I followed her. Other women followed as well. We all danced, hundreds of us, and then one by one everyone disappeared until I was left alone in the lodge, and I woke up. (p. xii)

Belcourt’s dream is telling, as it resonated and brings a tear to my eye, especially as I think about all the women whom I have come to know and have gone onto the spirit world too young and/or too violently. The beautiful Nuu-chah-nulth-aht (people with NCN ancestry) women I dedicate this chapter to were taken from their families far too soon. No doubt their lives were impacted by colonial policies and practices of the Canadian State; it is for this reason I take on the challenge of articulating such a bold statement. As Anderson et al. (2018) note, by getting involved in the issue of murdered and missing Indigenous women, it demonstrates that she cares. In caring deeply about Indigenous women, it is my hope to also make a contribution that brings much needed attention to matters of incarceration of Indigenous women in Canada.

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Canada’s Indigenous Policies and Practices The role of Indigenous women in the past, present and future has and is rooted in family, culture, teachings and love, regardless of life circumstances. Indigenous women of the past navigated a wilderness of beauty, ruggedness and the drastic change of colonialism, while present day women continue to bear the bruises, but take forth-ancestral responsibility into the future for the benefit of women to come. Traditionally, NCN roles were equally important with men having more physical demands and women having less, but more responsibility for passing knowledge onto children. With the arrival of Europeans and influences of patriarchy, NCN family roles changed drastically, displacing women and making them vulnerable to poverty, violence and death. Indigenous women do not set out in life thinking or wanting to be seen as less than human. The journey to understand how Indigenous women end up in jail, murdered or missing is a personal journey and it begins with you. First, you must learn about Canadian colonialism as it relates to Indigenous peoples and polices before you can begin to understand the plight of incarcerated Indigenous women. This chapter considers Lowman and Barker’s (2015) description of colonialism: Colonialism is commonly understood as an attempt to control territory or resources beyond the official boundaries of a state or empire. Colonies are founded in unsecured territories as a foothold for trade, military excursions, diplomatic contact, and to otherwise serve as an extension of the central power. (p. 3)

Further, the authors add that colonialism in Canada is about the land and Indigenous peoples. Thus, colonialism has and is “about the need to secure those lands at all cost” (Lowman & Barker, 2015, p. 3). Indigenous land continues to be at the heart of colonialism. In her chapter in Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered sisters (2018), Good adds that “settlers accepted the notion that success in that venture necessitated the exploitation and destruction of Indigenous peoples” (p. 91). Processes for securing land comes at a high cost, particularly to Indigenous women, as their traditional roles continue to be challenged by colonialism and the

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normalisation of patriarchy. To better understand the ongoing marginalisation of Indigenous women, one must go back in time to the sequence of events that followed the arrival of Europeans. Good’s chapter, A tradition of violence: Dehumanizing, stereotyping and Indigenous women (2018), traces early and disturbing actions by officers of the Crown through the fur trade. Drawing on James Daschuk’s early research on the fur trade, disease and the politics of starvation, Good shows how Indigenous women were used to advance control and domination of not only the fur trade, but territories as well. Good (2018) specifically draws on Daschuk’s research to highlight the inappropriate sexual nature of staff interaction from various federal departments, which was well known to management. Good (2018) notes that “Forty-five percent of government officials living in the Northwest Territories were known to be engaged in predatory relations with young Indigenous girls” (p.  93). Indigenous resistances to this sickening behaviour incited violence against State officials, which led to the punishment of Indigenous peoples through tactics such as starvation and the further taking of young Indigenous girls. For example, food was withheld from families until the sexual demands were met. These early days of settlement demonstrated the length the government would go to secure Indigenous territories; certainly, a tradition of violence that led to the dehumanisation and stereotyping of Indigenous women in Canada. Karina Harry (2009) outlines in great detail, the Indian Act of 1867. The Act is an assimilative policy created by the State with erasure of indigeneity as the primary goal. As such, the federal government was now responsible for “Indians” as defined in the Act. Further, the Act determined the land reserved for Indians and who is and who is not Indian, while enforcing a foreign form of governance (elected chief and council) onto Indigenous peoples and communities. Under the Act, Indigenous peoples are considered wards of the State incapable of caring for themselves, territories and families. Indigenous peoples were viewed as uncivilised savages; in fact, an Indian was not a person, nor could they vote or own property. “Enfranchisement” was an option; an “Indian” (someone of native ancestry registered under the Indian Act) could give up their Indian status in favour of becoming a person under Canadian law. For an Indian to gain enfranchisement under the law, one had to be 21 years of age and

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have the permission of the elected band council. Further, this person could enrol into the military or apply to university or to live abroad for five years. A status woman would also lose her status if she married an enfranchised man, and should he die, she would be permitted to live on the land, but only if she was deemed respectful by the Superintendent (Harry, 2009). The Act also prohibited Indians from possessing alcohol and more importantly, it banned the sacred potlatch, a gift-giving feast, making them both illegal and punishable by jail. It was illegal to secure a lawyer to pursue land claims on behalf of the nation while simultaneously residential schools were being established with mandatory attendance to follow in 1884. Harry (2009) notes that the laws were created to oppress Indigenous peoples and to control their lives while making them dependent upon the State. Harry further emphasises that the Act was not intended for the benefit of Indigenous peoples, particularly Indigenous women. Since the inception of the Indian Act, Indigenous women have been confronted with legislation that strips them of their identity and rights, which has continued into contemporary times. Before 1985, if an Indigenous woman married a Whiteman, she would forgo her Indian status along with her children; she would no longer be permitted to live on the reserve. However, if she married an Indigenous man with status, she was required to leave her home nation and transfer to her husband’s, leaving her vulnerable without her family (Harry, 2009). The Indian Act emulated European patriarchy whereby Indigenous men with status determined who was a member of the Nation, and only status men could vote and run in tribal elections. Indigenous women (non-status) were denied the right to return home under the Act if they became a widow or divorced. Indigenous women, status or not, were prohibited from owning land or inheriting their husband’s Certificate of Possession (CP).3 However, if the Indian Agent determined a widow or divorced non-status women was of “good moral charter” (Indigenous Foundations, 2009), the agent would permit the return to community or access to occupy CP land. Of course, the thrust behind enfranchisement was assimilation and reduction of the Indigenous population (Harry, 2009). The Act continues to exist as a piece of discriminatory legislation  A provision in the Act allowing a tribal or enfranchised male to possess non-fee simple land.

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regulating the lives of Indigenous peoples, especially women who became subservient to men. Nevertheless, since its inception the Act has and continues to be challenged in court although change has been slow to come. The most notable change came in 1985 when the Indian Act was amended, introducing Section 31, which allowed non-status women (who formerly had status) to regain status (Harry, 2009). Their children may or may not be granted status, and they must meet the criteria set out in the Act, which is complicated and requires much more attention than this paper can give. A closer examination of changes to the Act, and other recently introduced legislation and court case(s) will follow this section on statistics of Indigenous women. Colonial policies and practices literally and figuratively target Indigenous women with the intention of harming and even killing them. The brutal settlement of Canada coupled with the violent treatment of Indigenous peoples, particularly woman, has led to the perception that Indigenous women are of no value or importance in Canadian society. Arriagada’s (2016) contribution to Statistics Canada’s report on Women in Canada: A gender-based statistical report—First Nations, Metis and Inuit Women shows that Indigenous women make up 4% of the female population in Canada; Indigenous peoples themselves make up 4.9% of the overall Canadian population (see also Statistics Canada, 2017). Further, the report outlines the population of Indigenous women by province/territory, particularly those that live on or off reserve. Arriagada’s 2016 report also includes statistics about the demographics of Indigenous women in terms of age, housing, language, education and employment. Indigenous women are younger than the non-Indigenous female population; as a direct result, they have a shorter life expectancy and higher rates of fertility. Additionally, Indigenous women often find themselves living in poor housing circumstances with overcrowding and substantial home repairs as major issues. While obtaining a post-­secondary education is on the rise for Indigenous women, the number of Indigenous women employed continues to pose a challenge, particularly for single mothers. The report devotes a small section of the report to murdered and missing Indigenous women (MMIW), which is a growing national concern (Arriagada, 2016). As such, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) 2014 report draws on the statistics of Indigenous women and police data to provide a snapshot of MMIW in Canada over the last 30 years.

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McDiarmid’s 2017 article entitled Still no way to tell how many Indigenous women and girls go missing in Canada each year reveals that 164 women went missing and 1017 were murdered over the last 30 years. In a 2015 update, 174 Indigenous women were reported missing, with 111 cases considered suspicious circumstances. In December 2015, the federal government established the National Inquiry to investigate the factors behind MMIW. The inquiry continues seeking truth through stories with the hope to make a difference in the lives of Indigenous women while changing the circumstances that led MMIW. McDiarmid’s (2017) article concludes by highlighting the gaps in information regarding MMIW, which was brought forward by the Native Women's Association of Canada (a national organisation). As Indigenous women bear the burden of racism, discrimination and violence, more must be done, particularly in closing the information and data gap to portray an accurate picture of MMIW in Canada. Ongoing colonial polices, practices and systemic barriers lend to MMIW and the ongoing marginalisation of Indigenous women, subjecting them to further poverty, domestic violence and incarceration.

Incarcerated Indigenous Women As the number of MMIW continues to grow, so does the number of incarcerated Indigenous women. Unfortunately, what these women share in common are colonial experiences of growing up in poverty, violence and abuse. A 2016 VICE article entitled Why Indigenous women are Canada’s fastest growing prison population (Malone, 2016) draws on Donna Lerat’s story of imprisonment. The article notes, “Lerat was born into poverty and chaos” while subjected to sexual and physical abuse before ending up in foster care; an all too familiar story for Indigenous women who end up behind bars. Further, it notes that 30% “in custody have previous psychiatric hospitalizations,” with 70% having a history of sexual abuse and 86% having a history of physical abuse (Malone, 2016). Lerat makes the correlation between residential schools, foster care and prison noting that many Indigenous women, like herself, “end up on the corner” and are forced into a life of prostitution before heading to jail. As

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the numbers of Indigenous women in “federal penitentiaries continue to grow,” so does the immediate concern to confront it with resolution in mind (Malone, 2016). Malone (2016) further notes that the Indigenous female prison population has increased 100% since 2001, while Larimande (2017) comments that 38% of women incarcerated are Indigenous; this includes federal, territorial and provincial statistics. Further, statistics show that 31% of those women are in federal penitentiaries. Statistics in Crawford’s (2017) article shows that the overall Indigenous incarcerated population has increased by 40% since 2006. Some attribute this increase to legislative changes brought on by the Harper government in the early 2000s (CBC, March 2019), especially the introduction of minimum mandatory sentence (Toronto Defence Lawyers, 2016). These changes mean, “sentences imposed on individuals convicted of certain offences cannot be less than the corresponding mandatory minimum sentence for that offence,” (Toronto Defence Lawyers, 2016). Indigenous women are incarcerated for a number of reasons related to life circumstances (i.e., poverty) or petty crimes (i.e., failure to appear in court). Depending on the nature of the crime(s) Indigenous women could find themselves serving two years (or less) in a provincial correction facility while other women could serve a federal sentence (over two years). The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) article Locked up at 12: A Métis woman tries to overcome the inequalities in Canada’s justice system (Bellrichard, 2018) notes Indigenous inmates, including women, serve their time in high security institutions before being granted parole over their non-Indigenous counterparts. The history of women’s correctional facilities in Canada shows that there was only one female correctional facility in Kingston, Ontario until 2000, which housed all levels of lawbreakers (Correctional Services Canada, 2019). However, over time this proved to be ineffective for a number of reasons (i.e., distance between families), which led to the closing of the Kingston facility and the opening of provincial and federal institutions. Along with this change came the need for institutions to recognise the benefits of healing lodges where Indigenous-centred programming is offered. In addition to these changes, the government introduced the role of Deputy Commissioner for Women

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in 1996 who is responsible for ensuring adequate staff and support for Indigenous women prisoners. Although structural change has occurred, little else has changed by way of preventing Indigenous women from going to jail, as they continue to be the fastest growing incarcerated population. This increase also speaks to the experiences of incarcerated Indigenous women who are often labelled high-risk “offenders,” who will likely serve a full sentence and spend time in solitary confinement (McKenzie, 2017). Research shows that Indigenous women incarcerated have and continue to be discriminated against because of systemic racism, which correctional institutions struggle to acknowledge let alone confront. The Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC) released Indigenous women in solitary confinement: Policy backgrounder (2017) notes that Indigenous females are younger than non-Indigenous with an average age of 29 years. Lerat (Malone, 2016) and Lepine (Bellrichard, 2018) were both incarcerated at a much younger age. Both women compare jail to residential school, as Lerat recalls her arrival to the detention centre stating that it “looked like a residential school” while Lepine notes that the system itself emulates residential school keeping inmates “shut out from the rest of the world” (Bellrichard, 2018). In the article Locked up at 12 (Bellrichard, 2018), 37-year-old Lepine shares her painful journey from foster home to prison where she has spent most of her life. Imprisoned for theft and property crimes at a young age, Lepine was later moved to adult prison where she stayed until the age of 19. Upon her release from jail, she was dropped off at a nearby mall and told “good luck with your life,” with no money, no place to go, but back to jail. The Native Women’s Association of Canada (2017) suggests that the Canadian State “has effectively trained Aboriginal women to believe they are on their own in circumstances where they face violence” further adding that “when women are forced to meet violence with violence, the travesty is they are then susceptible to facing criminal charges (p.  7). Similarly, Malone (2016) notes that a young Lerat was “groomed for a life behind bars, and she followed what seemed like the only path laid out in front of her.” This vicious cycle is not an uncommon experience for women who continue to blame themselves for the circumstances of prison. Malone (2016) also reports an overcrowding in regional female correctional centres while federal

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institutions suffer from inadequate programmes and/or resources to support women. As noted earlier, Indigenous women are often labelled “high risk offenders.” The stories of Lerat and Lepine are similar, as both have a history with the child welfare system, domestic violence and abuse, which eventually led to petty crimes that grew more serious with time sending them both back to jail. High-risk or not, Indigenous female inmates will “likely be placed in maximum security units, spend more time in segregation, and are less likely to get back into the community on parole” (Bellrichard, 2018). As evidenced by the oppressive policies and harmful practices of the Indian Act that targeted women in particular, it should come as no surprise that Indigenous women experience such cruelty. The article adds that Indigenous inmates will “be held in custody until their statutory release date or warrant expiry date, the maximum possible time Corrections can keep them in custody” (Bellrichard, 2018). This institutional approach only perpetuates colonialism, leaving Indigenous female inmates vulnerable to further discrimination. Of all the Indigenous inmates, 85% will serve their full sentence compared to 65% of their non-Indigenous counterparts (Crawford, 2017). There are a number of female provincial and federal correction centres across Canada (see Correctional Services Canada for a detailed list). Taken aback by the research on Indigenous women, particularly those murdered, missing or living in poverty, I find it hard to believe that they pose such a threat to Canadian society. Indigenous peoples, particularly women, face the double edge sword of marginalisation and criminalisation, as evident in the statistics gathered and growing research. In addition, they are labelled high-risk “offenders” who are then more likely to serve full sentences in high security prisons. Administrative segregation is “the segregation of an inmate to prevent association with other inmates, when specific legal requirements are met, other than pursuant to a disciplinary decision,” (Correctional Services Canada, 2018). Solitary confinement, as defined by the United Nations is “the physical isolation of individuals who are confined to their cell for 22 to 24 hours a day” (UN Task Group, 2007, p. 1). Indigenous female inmates are also more likely to experience administrative segregation and/or solitary confinement. As

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the research indicates, most Indigenous female inmates will experience, at one point or another, segregation, solitary confinement or both. Malone (2016) reports that “between 2005 and 2015 the number of Aboriginal offenders in segregation rose 52.4%. They’ve also had consistently the longest average length of stay in segregation.” There is a growing concern in the increase of incarcerated Indigenous women, prompting the Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC) to undertake its own research on the topic. The NWAC published a policy document on incarceration and solitary confinement of Indigenous women in 2017, outlining their grave concerns for such a practice. The NWAC (2017) also indicates that the United Nations also condemns solitary confinement constituting the practice as torture. NWAC (2017) notes that Indigenous women will spend more time segregated than non-­Indigenous women while experiencing “detrimental psychological effects” (p.  4). This inequity among inmates is unacceptable, particularly as Indigenous women continue to be victimised by this inhuman treatment. The report notes that it is a “harmful practice for individuals with past histories of trauma, abuse and/or self-harm, often exacerbating the psychological and emotional wounds and issues that go with these histories” (NWAC, 2017, p.  4). As colonialism continues to thrive, Indigenous women, incarcerated or not, continue to pay a hefty price, with legislation that works against them; however, it does not go unchallenged.

Court Cases and Indigenous Women There are three cases worth noting. The first is the Supreme Court of Canada’s judgement in R. v. Gladue (1999) 1 S.C.R. 688. The Justice Education Society of British Columbia (2016) provides a quick overview of R v. Gladue (1999) and the sentencing of Indigenous peoples. The Gladue case, specifically, brought about change that requires a special kind of cultural consideration the court must consider, particularly alternative processes that take colonial histories into account. This restorative process emphasises not only healing, but also traditional forms of justice, which have proven to be effective in the past. Further, the Justice Education Society (2016) states that:

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Section 718.2(e) of the Criminal Code, as well as the Supreme Court of Canada in R. v. Gladue, [1999] 1 S.C.R. 688 have stated that Judges should account for these considerations when making sentencing decisions. Gladue asks judges to apply a method of analysis that recognizes the adverse background cultural impact factors that many Aboriginals face. In a Gladue analysis these factors, if present in their personal history, work to mitigate or reduce the culpability of lawbreakers. Judges are then asked to consider all reasonable alternatives to jail in light of this. Such an analysis, then, is more likely to lead to a restorative justice remedy being used either in place of a jail sentence or combined with a reduced term.

Although the Gladue case has been around for more than 20 years, particularly as a mechanism to advance changes in the justice system, there is no mention of it in the stories of either Lerat or Lepine. The perpetuation of colonial practices lends itself to the steady increase of Indigenous women going to jail, which impacts families; particularly children who can end up in foster care themselves. Studies by the Human Rights Commission (2012) time spent in segregation shows: [B]etween one-third and as many as 90% of prisoners experience some adverse psychological symptoms while in solitary confinement. These may include insomnia, confusion, feeling of hopelessness and despair, hallucinations, distorted perceptions and psychosis. (Cited in NWAC, 2017, p. 5)

The second and more recent court case involves BobbyLee Worm (CBC News, 2013) and the brutality of solitary confinement. BobbyLee was sentenced to six years imprisonment and spent three and a half of those years in solitary confinement; a sentence that exceeded the maximum length permitted. In an Aboriginal Peoples Television Network (APTN) InFocus (2017) interview, BobbyLee speaks frankly about the brutality of solitary confinement. She adds, with tears in her eyes, “solitary confinement does one thing, it breaks a person’s will to live” (McKenzie, 2017). Former inmates like BobbyLee speak to the mental and physical abuse, as well as the taunting, that occurs in segregation (McKenzie, 2017). Solitary confinement is on the radar of the John Howard Society, Civil

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Liberties Association of British Columbia and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association. These organisations are challenging, in court, the current practices of solitary confinement, which they argue violate the United Nations Mandela ruling of the treatment of inmates (CBC Radio, 2019). As CBC Radio (2019) notes, “the federal government has also introduced a new bill—Bill C-83—which, if it becomes law, will further soften the condition around solitary. Prisoners will be given four hours a day outside their cells.” This case is awaiting a Court of Appeal decision on issues relating to jurisdictional matters on changes to solitary confinement. A final case, Sharon McIvor v. Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, is important because Sharon McIvor challenged the Department of Indian Affairs, particularly the discrimination experienced by women. Sharon was an “Indian” under the Indian Act until she married a non-Indigenous man. After the 1985 amendment to the Act, women like Sharon were allowed to regain her status; however, her grandchildren would not be entitled to status. Sharon’s court case challenged the formula for status: On June 8, 2007, the British Columbia Supreme Court ruled that these distinctions were discriminatory and contrary to the Charter. The Court issued a very broad remedy that might be interpreted to allow for the registration of all descendants of women who “married out” as far back as 1869. Canada appealed the judgment. On April 6, 2009, the British Columbia Court of Appeal agreed with the trial judge’s decision that it was an infringement of Ms. McIvor and Mr. Grismer’s right to equality under the Charter, however the Court of Appeal ruled that it was limited to the beneficial treatment of persons in the male line. (Animbiigoo Zaagi igan Anishinaabek, 2019)

Although deemed a victory for Indigenous peoples, especially women, there has been no change to the Act. Sharon went one-step further and brought this case to the United Nations Human Rights Committee (UNHRC) and made a claim under the Optional Protocol to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. In early January 2019, the UNHRC ruled in Sharon’s favour, noting that Canada is violating not only Sharon’s human rights, but that of her children and

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grandchildren as well. The rulings have been made; now it is time to implement them. However, as time has proven, Canada has not stepped up to the plate to institute any form of change that would improve the quality of life for Indigenous women. Court cases are certainly one way to address inequalities experienced by Indigenous women, incarcerated or not; however, changes to the justice system have been slow or non-­ existent, leaving Indigenous women vulnerable to further discrimination.

 ruth and Reconciliation Commission T of Canada The recent Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada on Indian Residential Schools (TRC), and its Final Report (2015) refer to the overrepresentation of incarcerated Indigenous peoples resulting from cultural genocide. In the Calls-to-Action section, sections 30 through 37 call upon federal, provincial and/or territorial governments to: 30. …commit to eliminating the overrepresentation of Aboriginal people in custody over the next decade, and to issue detailed annual reports that monitor and evaluate progress in doing so. 31. …provide sufficient and stable funding to implement and evaluate community sanctions that will provide realistic alternatives to imprisonment for Aboriginal offenders and respond to the underlying causes of offending. 32. …amend the Criminal Code to allow trial judges, upon giving reasons, to depart from mandatory minimum sentences. 33. …recognize as a high priority the need to address and prevent Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), and to develop, in collaboration with Aboriginal people, FASD preventive programs that can be delivered in a culturally appropriate manner. 34. …undertake reforms to the criminal justice system to better address the needs of offenders with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD)….S 35. …eliminate barriers to the creation of additional Aboriginal healing lodges within the federal correctional system.

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36. …work with Aboriginal communities to provide culturally relevant services to inmates on issues such as substance abuse, family and domestic violence, and overcoming the experience of having been sexually abused. 37. …provide more supports for Aboriginal programming in halfway houses and parole services.

Further, sub-section 41 requires the government to consult with Indigenous peoples to establish an “inquiry into the causes of, and remedies for, the disproportionate victimization of Aboriginal women and girls. The inquiry's mandate would include an investigation into missing and murdered Aboriginal women and girls and links to the intergenerational legacy of residential schools.” (TRC, 2015, p.  325). The Calls-to-­Action certainly provides a framework for addressing the ongoing marginalisation and criminalisation of Indigenous peoples; however, little has changed by way of improving those lives, especially for women. There is a kind of lipservice in government rhetoric regarding past wrongs, reconciliation and moving forward; to the contrary, Indigenous peoples continue to experience the oppressive policies and practices of the Indian Act.

 ational Inquiry into Missing and Murdered N Indigenous Women and Girls The National Inquiry began in September 2016 and was mandated to report on (a) Systemic causes of all forms of violence against Indigenous women and girls in Canada and (b) institutional policies and practices implemented in response to violence experienced by Indigenous women and girls in Canada (NIMMIWG, 2019, p. 5). Over 2300 people contributed stories of their missing and probably murdered mothers, sisters, daughters and granddaughters to this National Inquiry, highlighting violence which “amounts to a race-based genocide of Indigenous Peoples, including First Nations, Inuit, and Métis, which especially targets women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people” (NIMMIWG, 2019, pp. 1–2). Such violence is impelled and perpetuated by colonial structures which continue their insidious entrenchment of Indigenous peoples as marginalised and victimised peoples, despite many years of fighting back against these structures.

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The concept of genocide within Canada is not one that is popularly held, with the Inquiry noting that given genocide is considered one of the most atrocious acts undertaken by individuals and groups against others, it is not a term that has been used to denote what has happened in the Canadian situation against First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples. However, beginning with the initial activities of settlers centuries ago, the government policies which emerged out of this and the need to control and subdue the people as well as the lands, the trickle of intergenerational trauma that has at many times been a flood, points clearly to genocide as: the sum of the social practices, assumptions, and actions detailed within this report; as many witnesses expressed, this country is at war, and Indigenous women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people are under siege. (NIMMIWG, 2019, p. 3) The National Inquiry chose three main perspectives to the inquiry: 1. ‘families-first’ over those who usually hold power; 2. trauma-informed, and therefore supporting healing; and 3. decolonising by placing Indigenous ways of knowing, being and doing at the centre of their tasks. The Inquiry, therefore, was not just about noting and decrying the violence perpetuated against our women and girls, but also about a “vision … [to] help build the foundation upon which First Nations, Métis, and Inuit women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people will reclaim their power and place”. (NIMMIWG, 2019, p. 5)

For many who gave testimonies in the Truth-Gathering Process of the Inquiry, speaking their truth enabled them to move forward into healing over the loss of a loved one. There were insights to be gained through hearing the stories of others who had lost loved ones in similar ways. The Inquiry (2019) noted that: Within the context of the individual, the first step toward healing often begins with talking about the pain and trauma they experienced in a supported way. Healing through family was also a prominent theme in the testimonies, as was finding strength in their own identity as First Nations, Métis, and Inuit women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people. [Others] … looked first to ceremonies, distinct systems of spirituality, and to traditional knowledge to find healing. (p. 44)

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This is hope—understanding that despite the decades and generations of destruction and marginalisation of our people, lands and cultures, much remains from which we can build our futures as strong First Nations, Métis, Inuit women, girls and 2SLGBTQQIA people. But it remains to be seen if the lip-service continues in government rhetoric, or if true change will be undertaken. In the meantime, there is much we can, and will, do.

Conclusion The journey to understand the lived experiences of Indigenous women in Canada, especially the women behind bars, has been a journey filled with yaa-yuk-miss (love-pain) for me. Love for Indigenous women’s resilience, their stories of hardship, triumph and determination mixed with the painful realities that Indigenous women face daily. As such, I as an Indigenous woman humbly acknowledge that I have not been incarcerated before nor have I met a woman who has been. Therefore, situating myself as a learner is important as it signals to others that I know who I am, where I have come from, and where I am going, particularly in relation to Indigenous women. Nevertheless, my own journey includes understanding colonialism and what it looks like in Canada, as it continues to persist. Indigenous peoples and territories experience colonialism through legislative policies and practices that stem directly from the Indian Act. Knowing where I come from, as NCN, also helped me prepare to learn about colonialism, particularly the dire circumstances of Indigenous women. The systemic discrimination, racism and violence Indigenous women experience, since the inception of colonisation, have continually nudged me to LISTEN, to take action, to care, to share and to be accountable. What I have come to learn along the way is that the Indian Act and justice system work together to discriminate and criminalise Indigenous peoples, particularly our women. Very likely to have experienced some form of intergenerational trauma prior to incarceration, Indigenous women further experience trauma, especially in segregation and isolation. As the NWAC (2017) notes, the current approach to solitary

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confinement goes against Correctional Service of Canada’s mandate of reintegration and rehabilitation. Although there has been change or attempts to change, the system continues to work against Indigenous women, further marginalising them while perpetuating colonialism. What is known about the growing number of incarcerated Indigenous women in Canada is limited only because there is very little by way of literature. Only by searching the Internet did I find CBC articles, statistics, NWAC report on solitary confinement and YouTube videos on the issue of incarcerated women. As the number of murdered and missing Indigenous women continues to grow, so do concerns about the number of Indigenous women behind bars. Interestingly the data gathered here did not include Indigenous women who have been arrested or incarcerated for defending their territories from the encroachment of colonialism. In addition to State policy and practice along with societal stereotyping, Indigenous women must also contend with lateral violence and Indigenous men who blindly embrace patriarchy; the odds are stacked against Indigenous women. More must be done by way of raising the profile of incarcerated Indigenous women to mitigate the number of women going to jail. Although, arguably, there has been some change as a result of court cases and the TRC’s Calls-to-Action the systems in place continue to fail women, leaving them vulnerable to further violence, poverty, trauma and more with little hope of meaningful change. Indigenous women have and continue to be a threat to colonialism, which is evident in the efforts to not only harm, but to kill her as well. This approach is something Indigenous women know all too well, as they continue to navigate the realities of institutionalised and structural discrimination, racism, violence and more. However, do not let these genocidal attempts fool you. Indigenous women have and continue to be strong and resilient pushing back, fighting and defending their very existence, as women, grandmothers, mothers, wife, sisters, daughters and nieces. Qwul'sih'yah'maht (Robina Thomas) from Lyackson (Coast Salish) is a good friend and colleague who has written about Indigenous women and leadership. She gently reminds me to respectfully acknowledge the leadership of women regardless of life circumstances (pers. Comm., February 2019). I am grateful to Qwul'sih'yah'maht who continues to be my mentor. I whole-heartedly agree that Indigenous women are strong

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leaders with voices to be heard. Anderson and Lawrence (2003) speak to the strength and determination of Indigenous women, particularly as they note that, “Native women carry heavy loads but they have a tremendous spirit of generosity in that they give for the betterment of our Nations,” (p. 22). Indeed, Indigenous women are born with fierce and beautiful spirits that embody leadership rooted in values of love, kindness, humility, respect and generosity; they do this not for themselves, but for the children, the territories and ancestors. It is the continued strength and determination of Indigenous women that will help lead us (humans) from out of the darkness and into the light, as the fight for justice to free her continues.

Glossary ʔiiḥatisatḥ  Ehattesaht.

ʔiiḥatisaqsup  Woman of Ehattesaht.

hishuk-ist-tsawalk  Everything is one and connected.

Nuu-chah-nulth  Row of Mountains facing the ocean and the identified territories of the Nuu-chah-nulth people. sii-yaa-ilth-supt  Having a vision for the people guided by the ancestors. tiławis tacumł  House of grey whales. yaa-yuk-miss  Love-pain.

References Anderson, K. (2000). Recognition of being: Reconstructing Native womanhood. Toronto, Canada: Sumach Press. Anderson, K., Campbell, M., & Belcourt, C. (Eds.). (2018). Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered Indigenous sisters, Prologue Waking Dreams: Reflections on Walking with Our Sister. Edmonton, AB: The University of Alberta Press. Anderson, K., & Lawrence, B. (2003). Strong women stories: Native vision and community survival. Toronto, Canada: Sumach Press. Animbiigoo Zaagi igan Anishinaabek. (2019). McIvor case overview. Retrieved from www.aza.ca/article/mcivor-case-overview-149.asp

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Arriagada, P. (2016). First nations, Métis and Inuit women (Women in Canada: A gender-based statistical report). Ottawa, Canada: Statistics Canada. Battell Lowman, E., & Barker, A. (2015). Settler identity and colonialism in 21st century Canada. Nova Scotia, Canada: Fernwood Publishing. Bellrichard, C. (2018, March 28). Locked up at 12: A Metis woman tries to overcome the inequalities in Canada’s justice system. CBC News. Retrieved from https://newsinteractives.cbc.ca/longform/locked-up-at-12 CBC News. (2013, 22 May). End solitary confinement, says former female inmate. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/ end-solitary-confinement-says-former-female-inmate-1.1337374 CBC Radio. (2019, 8 February). Months locked in a tiny box: How solitary confinement can erode mental health. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/radio/ quirks/feb-9-2019-psychology-of-solitary-confinement-mind-overgenes-genocide-and-climate-change-and-more-1.5008739/monthslocked-in-a-tiny-box-how-solitary-confinement-can-erode-mentalhealth-1.5008744 Correctional Services Canada. (2018). Administrative segregation guidelines. Ottawa, Canada: Government of Canada. Retrieved from https://www.cscscc.gc.ca/politiques-et-lois/709-1-gl-eng.shtml Correctional Services Canada. (2019). History of women’s corrections. Ottawa, Canada: Government of Canada. Retrieved from https://www.csc-scc.gc.ca/ women/002002-0007-en.shtml Crawford, A. (2017, September 15). Gaps between Indigenous and Non-­ Indigenous women inmates growing, latest statistics show. CBC News. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/crime-correctionsindigenous-prisons-1.4291568 Good, M. (2018). A tradition of violence: Dehumanization, stereotyping and Indigenous women. In K. Anderson, M. Campbell, & C. Belcourt (Eds.), Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered sisters (pp. 89–102). Alberta, Canada: University of Alberta Press. Harry, K. (2009). The Indian Act and Aboriginal women empowerment: What frontline workers need to know. Canada: For Battered Women’s Support Services. Retrieved from https://www.bwss.org/wp-content/uploads/ 2009/01/theindianactaboriginalwomensempowerment.pdf Indigenous Foundations. (2009). Marginalization of Aboriginal women. Vancouver, Canada: University of British Columbia. Retrieved from https:// indigenousfoundations.arts.ubc.ca/marginalization_of_aboriginal_women/

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Justice Education Society. (2016). Gladue and Aboriginal sentencing. Retrieved from https://www.justiceeducation.ca/about-us/research/gladue-andaboriginal-sentencing Larimande, T. (2017). Number of Indigenous people in prison now a human rights issue says Correctional Investigator. APTN National News. Retrieved from https://aptnnews.ca/2017/10/31/number-of-indigenous-people-inprison-now-a-human-rights-issue-says-correctional-investigator/ Lowman, E. B., & Barker, A. J. (2015). Settler identity and colonialism in 21st century Canada. Halifax, Canada: Fernwood Publishing. Malone, G. (2016, February 3). Why Indigenous women are Canada’s fastest growing prison population. Vice. Retrieved from https://www.vice.com/en_ ca/ar ticle/5gj8vb/why-indigenous-women-are-canadas-fastestgrowing-prison-population Martin, C., & Walia, H. (2019). Red women rising: Indigenous women survivors in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. Vancouver, Canada: Downtown Eastside Women’s Centre. McDiarmid, M. (2017, 20 December). Still no way to tell how many Indigenous women and girls go missing in Canada each year. CBC News. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/ne ws/politics/indigenous-missing-womenpolice-data-1.4449073 McKenzie, C. (2017, 16 February). Indigenous inmates and their treatment within Corrections Canada – InFocus. APTN. Retrieved from https://aptnnews.ca/2017/02/16/indigenous-inmates-treatment-withincorrections-canada-infocus/ Minister of Public Works and Government Services 2013 Cat. No. HR1-2012EPDF ISSN 1494-5738 This publication is available on the Commission’s website at: www.chrc-ccdp.gc.ca National Inquiry into Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls (NIMMIWG). (2019). Reclaiming power and place: Executive summary of the final report of the National Inquiry into Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls. Canada: National Inquiry into Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls. Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC). (2017). Indigenous women in solitary confinement: Policy backgrounder. Ottawa, Canada: Native Women’s Association of Canada. Retrieved from https://www.nwac.ca/wp-content/ u p l o a d s / 2 0 1 7 / 0 7 / N WA C - I n d i g e n o u s -Wo m e n - i n - S o l i t a r y Confinement-Aug-22.pdf

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Police Resources in Canada. Royal Mounted Police Canada. (2014). Missing and murdered Aboriginal women: A national operational overview. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. (2014). Missing and murdered Aboriginal women: A National operational overview. Ottawa, Canada: RCMP. Retrieved from http://www.rcmp-grc.gc.ca/en/missing-and-murdered-aboriginalwomen-national-operational-overview Statistics Canada. (2017, 25 October). Aboriginal peoples in Canada: Key results from the 2016 Census. Ottawa, Canada: Parliament of Canada. Retrieved from https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/daily-quotidien/171025/ dq171025a-eng.htm Supreme Court of Canada. Supreme Court Judgements. (1999, April 23). Report: 1 SCR 688. Case Number: 26300. Judges: Lamer, Antonio L’Heureux-Dubé, Claire; Gonthier, Charles Doherty; Cory, Peter deCarteret; Iacobucci, Frank; Bastarache, Michel; Binnie, William Ian Corneil. On Appeal From: British Columbia. Subject: Criminal Law. Toronto Defence Lawyers. (2016, June 16). What are mandatory minimum sentences in Canada? Retrieved from https://www.torontodefencelawyers.com/ blog/general-category/mandatory-minimum-sentences-canada/ Truth & Reconciliation Commission of Canada. (2015). Honouring the truth, reconciling for the future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. Manitoba, Canada: TRC. UN Task Group. (2007). The Istanbul statement on the use and effects of solitary confinement. Adopted on 9 December 2007 at the International Psychological Trauma Symposium, Istanbul. Retrieved from http://solitaryconfinement. org/uploads/Istanbul_expert_statement_on_sc.pdf YouTube. (2016). An interview with Leanne Simpson. Retrieved from https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=IiFIgF_OHlM&t=7s

5 The Mass Incarceration of Indigenous Women in Canada: A Colonial Tactic of Control and Assimilation Olga Marques and Lisa Monchalin

Introduction When the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC) released their 94 Calls to Action in 2015, they called upon governments to eliminate the overrepresentation of Indigenous peoples incarcerated over the next decade, stating the following for action 30: We call upon federal, provincial, and territorial governments to commit to eliminating the overrepresentation of Aboriginal people in custody over the next decade, and to issue detailed annual reports that monitor and evaluate progress in doing so. (TRC, 2015, p. 3)

O. Marques (*) Ontario Tech University, Oshawa, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected] L. Monchalin Kwantlen Polytechnic University, Surrey, BC, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_5

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Yet since this call, the incarceration rate of Indigenous peoples has not declined, rather it has only increased for Indigenous women, who are the fastest growing population of prisoners in Canada. For Indigenous women, this increase has surpassed the rate of over-incarcerated Indigenous men. Despite accounting for 4.3% of the population, Indigenous women make up 40% of the total female prisoner population in Canada (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018). Increases in the female Indigenous in-custody population coincided with a simultaneous overall decrease in the male prison population. The Office of the Correctional Investigator (2018) reports that: over the past ten years, the number of federally sentenced women inmates has increased by nearly 30%, growing from 534 in 2008 to 684 in 2018. This growth is in contrast to the decrease in the overall male in-custody population over the same time period (decline of 4%). (Office of the Correctional Investigator, 2018, p. 61)

Provincial and territorial institutions have also seen a crisis of Indigenous overrepresentation, with Indigenous persons accounting for 30% of admissions to custody in 2016/2017. A trend which has been on the rise for over ten years (Malakieh, 2018). The situation becomes even more dire when we consider that Indigenous women not only account for 50% of federal segregation placements but are placed in segregation for longer durations than non-Indigenous women (Native Women’s Association of Canada, 2017). It is as a result of these realities, that we argue, following from Smith (2005), that Indigenous women’s bodies have borne the brunt of the impacts of colonization and patriarchy. As highlighted in the Final Report of the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (National Inquiry into Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls (NIMMIWG), 2019): “Indigenous women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people in Canada have been the targets of violence for far too long. This truth is undeniable” (p. 49). That Indigenous women’s bodies are part of the terrain of conflict must not only be considered a by-product, or collateral consequence, of colonialist praxis, but rather a deliberate strategy of it. Indeed, no Indigenous

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bodies are left untouched by current deployments of the colonial apparatus. As Martel, Brassard, and Jaccoud (2011) argue: “There is also no longer any shadow of a doubt that colonialist countries have used whitestream criminal justice systems as a series of colonial policies and practices that have resulted in delegitimizing First Nations’ social institutions, and in eroding Indigenous world views” (p. 236). That several “strategies of annihilation” (Martel et al., 2011, p. 235)—or genocide (NIMMIWG, 2019)—have been promulgated against Indigenous peoples by the Canadian state (e.g., residential schools, sterilization, etc.) leads us to question how—and why—the state decides who has the right to live and which groups are to be exposed to death? Death here not only refers to the literal act of making someone dead, but also social death, whereby a person is alive but considered disposable, invisible, and outside the broader body politic. To best understand this line of questioning, Mbembé (2003) coined the analytic framework of necropolitics as a corollary to Foucault’s conceptualization of biopower, which describes the mechanisms through which processes of life are deployed to produce and maintain control over populations with society. While the concept of the sovereign or sovereignty—“the capacity to define who matters and who does not, who is disposable and who is not” (Mbembé, 2003, p.  27)—underpins both biopolitics and necropolitics, Mbembé (2003) critiques the failure of biopower to account for how death, and/or the threat of death, functions as a mechanism of social control that maintains power. Necropolitics is not just about the right to kill, or the politics of killing, but also the ability to expose targeted populations to either literal or social death, or the possibility of it. As such, necropower takes two central forms: (a) actual targeted death, and its associated terrors; or (b) the “benevolent” destruction of a culture in order to “save the people” from themselves (Mbembé, 2003, p. 22). It describes how some people/groups are marked as living and deserving of life, while other bodies are seen as either already dead or destined for death. To this end, Mbembé (2003) states: I have demonstrated that the notion of biopower is insufficient to account for contemporary forms of subjugation of life to the power of death. Moreover I have put forward the notion of necropolitics and necropower

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to account for the various ways in which, in our contemporary world, weapons are deployed in the interest of maximum destruction of persons and the creation of death-worlds, new and unique forms of social existence in which vast populations are subjected to conditions of life conferring upon them the status of living dead. (pp. 38–39)

Colonialism, then, is the ultimate expression of necropower, as its sole aims are for the total political, economic, and social control of a population or group of people. For the colonized, this meant/means a total loss of lands, home, political status, culture, and rights to one’s own self. Focusing on the over-incarceration of Indigenous women in Canada and using Mbembé’s (2003) concept of necropolitics as a theoretical and analytic point of entry, this chapter seeks to articulate the ways in which the prison is underwritten by racialized colonial histories and practices. That is, we argue that the very colonial practices that historically sought to manage, and assimilate or exterminate, Indigenous peoples, underpin contemporary neoliberal logics that reiterate Indigenous bodies as inherently criminal, victimizable, and requiring punishing and normalizing containment. To begin, we outline how Indigenous women held power and prominence in communities before European arrival. This is followed by juxtaposing this to the limited and distorted patriarchal colonial perspectives held of Indigenous women by the colonizers. This includes outlining how early histories of Indigenous women came to be published and disseminated throughout Canadian society, which has led to continued oppressive impacts affecting Indigenous women today. We then shift to an analysis of colonialism, and how the treatment of Indigenous women today within the criminal justice system reflects a continuation of patriarchal colonialism. We argue that the mass incarceration of Indigenous women is reflective of a colonial tactic of control and show how prisons are major apparatuses set up to assimilate and control Indigenous presence. Finally, we conclude by outlining how despite genocidal colonial tactics, Indigenous women remain, which shows their strength and resilience.

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 mbedded Colonial Violence Against E Indigenous Women Indigenous women’s conflicts with the law, and their subsequent mass imprisonment, cannot be understood outside the context of past and continuing colonial paternalistic and necropolitical assault on Indigenous women and their bodies. This assault has been ongoing since the initial arrival of the colonizers. As Mbembé (2003) asserts: Colonial occupation itself was a matter of seizing, delimiting, and asserting control over a physical geographic area—of writing on the ground a new set of social and spatial relations. The writing of new spatial relations (territorialisation) was, ultimately, tantamount to the production of boundaries and hierarchies, zones and enclaves; the subversion of existing property arrangements; the classification of people according to different categories; resource extraction; and, finally, the manufacturing of a large reservoir of cultural imaginaries. […] Sovereignty meant occupation, and occupation meant relegating the colonized into a third zone between subjecthood and objecthood. (pp. 25–26)

The acquisition of land was, and continues to be, the colonizers central goal. Although often framed in benign language such as “conquest” or “appropriation” that erases the human collateral consequences of this goal, colonization rests upon gendered and sexualized violence. Such violence is not a mere by-product of colonization, but central to its apparatus: The project of colonial sexual violence establishes the ideology that Native bodies are inherently violable—and by extension, that Native lands are also inherently violable. (Smith, 2005, p. 12)

To get land, communities need to be dismantled. As such, women became a target due to their central roles in reproducing and caring for communities. The subjugation of Indigenous lands and communities necessarily entails the subjugation of Indigenous women. Indeed, the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and

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Girls (2019) recognizes and devoted much attention to the discussion of colonization as gendered oppression. Indigenous communities had, and still have, advanced forms of governance, laws, and cultures, where women hold various vital roles. For example, the Stó:lō are a women-centred society where women hold power and position (Victor, 2012). They were, and are, “matriarchal with respect to cultural property and egalitarian with respect to decision making and familial and communal contributions” (Victor, 2012, p.  55). And while all Indigenous communities are not one and the same, such as not all being matriarchal, something that is common is the respect and value of women. For instance, as Sarah Deer (2015) explains, we must be careful not to over-generalize or take a pan-Indian approach to understanding Indigenous women’s roles in pre-colonial times. Yet at the same time there are some “common themes in tribal histories and epistemologies that serve as counterpoints to patriarchy” (Deer, 2015, p.  18). Patriarchy is largely an import brought over by the colonizers, and before their arrival, it wasn’t uncommon to find Indigenous women holding “spiritual, political, and economic power” (Deer, 2015, p. 18). Similarly, as Kim Anderson (2016) explains, while there are significant differences between Indigenous nations, at the same time, “the values, lifestyles, and systems that existed in our communities prior to the arrival of Europeans generally secured the status of Native women” (p. 33). Indeed, Indigenous societies acknowledged the power and significance of Indigenous women. Along the same lines, as Joyce Green (2017) explains, “women in most Indigenous nations historically enjoyed far more respect, power and autonomy than did their European settler counterparts” (p. 10). This is not to say that everything was perfect, nor to romanticize pre-colonial times, yet it is certain that the disrespect or violence against women was not standard practice or part of the culture like it was within the “heteropatriarchal systems” of the European colonizers (Anderson, 2016, p. 34). Due to Indigenous women’s power and prominence in communities, colonizers became fearful of this difference. This was unlike their patriarchal system, whereby men controlled through violence and hierarchy. These colonizer men brought with them their patriarchal ideologies. Due to women’s key roles in communities in being sacred and central, Indigenous women became a target. In the targeting of Indigenous

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women, rape came to be used as colonial weapon in an attempt to abolish and control Indigenous nations. As Deer (2015) states “rape has been used—is still used—as a weapon to control and colonize Native peoples” (p.  49). Distorted writings and misguided representations depicting Indigenous women as sexually amoral or promiscuous soon followed. In the early histories of “Canada,” Canadian literature reflected a fundamentally limited and distorted view of Indigenous peoples, notably women. Numerous early records of Indigenous peoples in Canada, including textbooks, and history books, are full of deceptive records that incorrectly depict Indigenous women as “dirty,” sexually available, and amoral (Acoose, 1995). They have presented a European Christian patriarchal perspective that relayed Indigenous women as a hypersexual Indian princess and easy “squaw” (Acoose, 1995). Such images have been extremely destructive to Indigenous women (Valaskakis, 1999). Terms such as “squaw” for instance are extremely offensive, as it is a term constructing an Indigenous woman as “animalistic, savage, and sub-human” (Merskin, 2010, p.  346). Throughout history and into today, popular mainstream culture, including the mass media, has sustained, reinforced, and disseminated these dehumanizing and limiting “squaw” stereotypes (Merskin, 2010). This has continued to have grave impacts upon Indigenous women. Not only does it influence the ideologies of non-­ Indigenous peoples, causing negative and harmful actions towards Indigenous women. But it also can lead to internalized oppression by Indigenous women themselves (Merskin, 2010). This means that one comes to believe and take-on these destructive depictions. It involves having one view themselves through these constructs that define Indigenous persons as being “racially and culturally subhuman, deficient, and vile,” and start to believe that about themselves (Poupart, 2003, p.  87). Such internalization can lead to adverse consequences, such as self-hatred. What’s more is that the internalized demeaning stereotypes can go on to impact future generations. As Emma LaRocque (1994) has explained, it is Indigenous women who have experienced some of the gravest impacts of European colonization. Indigenous bodies have been marked as dirty with sexual sin within the colonial imagination. Due to this thinking, they are considered sexually violable (Smith, 2013). To patriarchal colonists, Indigenous women’s

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bodies are merely parts “and not entitled to bodily integrity” (Smith, 2013, p. 73). This type of distorted disrespectful colonized thinking can be seen with the horrific disrespect and degradation of Cree woman Cindy Gladue, who was both a mother and a daughter. At the trial for her death in 2015, the Canadian courts allowed preserved vaginal tissue to be presented as physical evidence for the jury trial. As Christa Big Canoe explained, instead of using modern technology, her actual dissected intimate body parts were brought in for display and “used as a demonstration tool,” which is “both offensive and re-victimizing” (Big Canoe, 2015). It is clear that the horrific stereotypes of Indigenous women brought by colonialism and patriarchy have become embedded and have left a legacy of oppression that still take place as real horrific actions against Indigenous women in various forms. It is these demeaning views of Indigenous women which have spread pervasively throughout Canadian society, from media, to literature, to textbooks, and more. These misguided notions have become woven within Canadian institutions, including schools, churches, and the criminal justice system (Acoose, 1995; Adams, 1975). They were the building blocks to such institutions. Thus, the working ideologies of these systems are rooted in these racist, oppressive stereotypes which maintain an underlying agenda of the elimination of Indigenous women from their land, and their communities, and identities as autonomous and sacred women. Consider for instance the Kingston Prison for Women, known as ‘P4W’. Within a four-year period from December 1988 to February 1991 seven women committed suicide at P4W, six of whom were Indigenous (Guenther, 2018). In April of 1994, women in the prison rallied together to speak out against the conditions and treatment they were experiencing, in what became suppressed by an all-male Institutional Emergency Response Team who proceeded to strip the women naked, while leaving them nude and shackled on the floor for six hours (Guenther, 2018). This entire incident was video recorded and later shown on Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s (CBC) investigative documentary programme The Fifth Estate. By 1994 there had been twelve suicides of Indigenous women at P4W; these incidents finally sparked the government to act and follow-up on the recommendations that had been

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published in a report released in April of 1990: Creating Choices: The Report of the Task Force on Federally Sentenced Women—a report that called for the prisons closure (Emberley, 2007, p.  280). After its closing, Correctional Services Canada established in its place four regional facilities and an Aboriginal Healing Lodge. Yet, have the realities of what Indigenous women been experiencing improved? A look to some recent cases perhaps suggests otherwise. For instance, in June 2006 Cree woman BobbyLee Worm was given a six-­ year sentence for offences that included robbery when she was 19 years old. She was a first-time offender, and initially sent to Edmonton Institution for Women, then moved to The Fraser Valley Institution for Women in Abbotsford, British Columbia. While incarcerated she spent the majority of her sentence locked in a segregation cell. This meant that she was placed in a three metre by three metre cell—typically referred to as “the hole.” While in the hole, she was confined and isolated for up to 23 hours a day, she would receive food through a slot in the wall, and have no human contact for months on end (Supreme Court of British Columbia v. BobbyLee Worm and the Attorney General of Canada, 2011, pp. 2–3). In 2013, she settled a lawsuit against the Correctional Service of Canada for what she experienced. In commenting on what it is like for Indigenous women in prison, she expressed that: First Nations women were treated differently than non-Aboriginal girls, and I saw a lot of discrimination by [Correctional Service Canada] against Aboriginal prisoners—giving them fewer privileges, longer and harsher punishments, and just generally treating them worse. (Dhillon, 2017)

 urrent Treatment of Indigenous Women C as Colonialism 2.0 Indigenous women are not committing more crimes than non-­Indigenous women, but rather the system is structurally racist. The dismantling of Indigenous women has been built into the very design of this country referred to as “Canada.” Colonial carceral and necropolitical logics described above also operate beyond the physical space of prisons. The

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overrepresentation of incarcerated Indigenous women stands alongside the intersecting axes of precarity, vulnerability, victimization, and trauma, evidenced in the numbers of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls, the displacement of Indigenous children from their families, and the forced sterilizations of Indigenous women. According to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), Indigenous women accounted for approximately 16% of all female homicide victims, despite being only 4% of the total female population, between 1980 and 2012 (NIMMIWG, 2019). In addition, Indigenous women consistently experience higher rates of the most severe forms of violence: physical assault, sexual assault, sex trafficking, and robbery (NIMMIWG, 2019). These issues, like mass imprisonment, cannot be separated from the context of ongoing patriarchal colonialism. As Frantz Fanon (1991) vividly describes of colonial occupation, The town belonging to the colonized people, or at least the native town, […] is a place of ill fame, peopled by men of evil repute. They are born there, it matters little where or how; they die there, it matters not where nor how. It is a world without spaciousness; men live there on top of each other, and their huts are built one on top of the other. The native town is a hungry town, starved of bread, of meat, of hoes, of coal, of light. The native town is a crouching village, a town on its knees, a town wallowing in the mire. (p. 38)

The reality that Indigenous females are much more frequently victims of homicide compared to non-Indigenous females in Canada must not be ignored when considering colonial tactics at work today—with Indigenous females being six times more likely than non-Indigenous females to be a victim of a homicide (Mulligan, Axford, & Solecki, 2016). Various databases and counts of Indigenous women who have been found murdered or reported missing have been collected over the past ten years showing drastic instances. For instance, in 2010 the Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC) documented 582 cases of missing and murdered Indigenous women between the 1960s and 2010 through their Sisters in Spirit initiative (NWAC, 2010). Maryanne Pearce’s (2013) Ph.D. thesis brought to light 824 cases of missing and murdered

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Indigenous women and girls from 1946 to 2013. Then in 2014, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) released a report documenting 1181 cases of missing and murdered Indigenous women from 1980 to 2012 (RCMP, 2014). More recently community estimates are even higher citing over 4000 cases. This estimate has come from the Walk4Justice initiative founded by Gladys Radek (Gitxsan/Wet’suwet’en) and Bernie Williams (Haida). In their walks to raising awareness across the country they collected the names of 4232 missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls (Tasker, 2016; Yeung & Nair, 2017). Currently, Annita Lecchesi (PhD candidate at the University of Lethbridge) created an online database of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls in both Canada and the United States. In three years, 3000 cases have been documented; however, Lecchesi has noted that this is an undercount, estimating that there are at least 25,000–30,000 more names that need to be added (in Aguilar, 2018). In addition, the Sisters in Spirit initiative identified many of the missing and murdered Indigenous women to be mothers, with 88% in their database identified as mothers (NWAC, 2010). The child welfare system has been an additional mechanism of colonial control of Indigenous women. As identified in the 2011 National Household Survey, almost half (48%) of all children aged 14 and younger who are in foster care are Indigenous. That equates to almost 4% of Indigenous children in foster care compared to 0.3% of non-Indigenous children (Statistics Canada, 2013, p. 5). Indigenous children are being torn from their homes and placed into the system due to reasons fuelled by colonialism. For instance, the central reason for children being removed is neglect—which is a structural issue fuelled by poverty, lack of access to proper housing, and the interconnected coping mechanism of substance abuse—which again, all circle back to the central tactics of colonialism and the structurally racism system to which it is built upon (Blackstock, 2011; Blackstock & Trocmé, 2005; Woods & Kirkey, 2013). It is important to note that the federal government provides unequal child welfare services as compared to non-First Nations children. In fact, the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal found the federal government to be discriminatory towards First Nations children in care. In January 2016, The First Nations Child and Family Caring Society of Canada,

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along with the Assembly of First Nations, won their case at the Human Rights Tribunal against the federal government—which proved that Canada discriminates against First Nations children in the child welfare system on the basis of race (Blackstock, 2016). Children in First Nations communities receive 22 to 34% less child welfare funding as compared to all other children in the child welfare system in Canada (Jago, 2017). Coerced and forced sterilizations presents another example of a colonial control tactic aimed at Indigenous women. In a report documenting the experiences of 16 Indigenous women who were coercively sterilized between 2005 and 2010 in Saskatoon, it was found that all of the women were stressed and under much duress from being forced into having a tubal ligation while they were in labour (Boyer & Bartlett, 2017). As such, they felt invisible, profiled, and powerless. Most of the women were not given proper information about the procedure. This included not making it clear to the women that this was a permanent procedure. Instead, being led to assume that it was a type of birth control that was reversable (Boyer & Bartlett, 2017). This same report detailed some of the extensive history of the targeting of forced sterilizations on Indigenous women throughout Canada, and into today. This includes Indigenous women who became central targets during the Eugenics legislation implemented throughout the years in Canada. For instance, between 1929 and 1972, an estimated 2800 people were sterilized under Alberta’s Sexual Sterilization Act. Indigenous women many times were deemed to be “mentally unfit” and as such, sterilized under the various Eugenics’ legislation at alarming rates. However, “mentally unfit” would often mean a cultural or historical difference that put Indigenous women outside the “norm” of the Euro-Centric model of what was deemed to be “fit” (Boyer & Bartlett, 2017, p. 7). In October of 2017, a class action lawsuit representing more than 60 Indigenous women in Saskatchewan was filed, the majority of whom were forced into sterilization in the preceding 10—15 years (Hansen, 2018). Thus, in colonial Canada, Indigenous women have been a target on multiple levels and as such have remained a threat to the system which is still inherently patriarchal. This is evidenced by the system which could allow for drastic numbers of Indigenous women to go missing or be murdered, drastic numbers of children being taken away from families and

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placed into foster care. This is also evidenced by the forced sterilizations, which have been documented as still occurring in Canada. And as we argue, this is also evidenced by the mass incarceration of Indigenous women in Canada’s prison system. As such, the criminal justice system in Canada became one of the major apparatuses set up to assimilate and control Indigenous presence. This mass imprisonment of Indigenous women is ongoing genocide and cannot be understood outside of the context of the colonial agenda. Modern prisons function as the epitome of the colonial apparatus which has continually tried to dismantle Indigenous peoples, communities, and families. Embedded in the cultural imagination, colonial falsehoods posit Indigenous women as superfluous, violable, and inherently pathological and criminogenic. As a result, they are simultaneously visible and invisible to the state.

Incarceration as Colonial (and Necropolitical) Tactic Following from Foucault (1976, 1977), some literature posits prisons as a site of biopower—spaces of ultimate discipline, control over, and management of, the lives of “unmanageable” persons, through which the technology of normative knowledge (e.g., “correction”) is deployed (e.g., Ferrante, 2017; MacDonald & Gillis, 2017). However, we argue that the modern prison system is more accurately understood as necropolitical space. That is, as spaces of exclusion, alienation, and social (sometimes even literal) death, and not about “corrections” despite what is often touted through official politico-legal discourse. Speaking to the prisoning of women, the trauma of imprisonment on women, and the different set of governing logics that frame women’s correctional institutions, Elizabeth Comack (2018) writes: “The provision of gender-responsive programming and other resources in prison is essentially designed to empower the women to become responsible, self-reliant, and conforming neo-liberal citizens” (p. 29). The prison seemingly becomes a space to create women anew. A proper female subject-citizen is created by the “benevolent” punitive policies, practices, and institutions of the state. This neoliberal

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prison is a reinvented form of colonial governance; the criminal justice system being the central apparatus serving the state’s unchanged objective of addressing, or eliminating, the so-called Indian problem. Extant literature has documented “that Canada is a forerunner in the Indigenization of its correctional apparatus” (Martel et al., 2011, p. 237). Rather than seeking to dismantle colonialist social and criminal justice institutions, or colonialist discourses of crime and criminality, under the rhetoric of rehabilitation and reintegration, carceral institutions become sites of racial management, containment, and surveillance, especially for Indigenous women. The promise of prisoner rehabilitation and reintegration is seductive. As political and economic investments are made to prisons, ensuring that state-approved versions of gendered, sexed, and race/ethnic identities are written into programmes, policies, and practices, the result is carceral expansion wherein more individuals become incarcerated, rather that diverted, due to the best services and supports being those behind prison walls. Canadians are deluged with messaging that: Existing institutions don’t provide adequate care for the growing number of women in shackles or the increasing number of prisoners living with mental health and substance use issues—so let’s have new prisons for that. Existing institutions don’t provide culturally appropriate programming to Indigenous peoples incarcerated en masses—new prisons can do that. (Piché, 2017)

Positing the prison as a productive component of society draws attention to the ongoing practices of a gendered and raced settler colonialism that seeks to remove Indigenous bodies from their land. The language of “change” and “improvement” that is used to sell prison reforms and expansion masks the replication of a colonial logic that extracts people from their communities and teaches them a more appropriate Indigeneity. This affirms the statements of Deputy Minister of the Indian Affairs, 1913–1932, Duncan Campbell Scott that: The happiest future for the Indian race is absorption into the general population, and this is the object of the policy of our government. The great

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forces of intermarriage and education will finally overcome the lingering traces of native custom and tradition. (Monture, 2002, p. 126)

While we laud state efforts towards penal and criminal justice reform, we need to seriously consider such reforms as a function of penal power and not transformative of that power. The state is not interested in divesting itself from their monopoly over control, capture, and containment. Indeed, looking broadly at calls for political and policy change, the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (2019) highlights that the “main reason these changes and recommendations haven’t been implemented yet is that they rely on governments and bureaucracies to want to change their own laws, contracts, and policies” (p. 64, italics added). Carceral reforms and investments work within a colonialist and necropolitical framework that centralizes the prison system as a natural or inevitable part of the social landscape. As such, the state is not invested in dismantling the prison system as the key apparatus used to govern social behaviour, normalise punishments, and sequester or displace. For instance, in April 2019, it was announced that $1  million was being put towards expanding the Labrador Correctional Facility to increase capacity for female prisoners (CBC News, 2019). Ostensibly, this is a proactive response to public demonstrations outside of the prison from protesting family members, and one that follows the logic of the Task Force on Federally Sentenced Women, Creating Choices (1990) report, that led to the closure of the federal Prison for Women (P4W) in Kingston, and the construction of five regional facilities spread across Canada to allow for women prisoners to maintain connections with their families. But one must question why we as a society are so invested in maintaining—and expanding—carceral systems and structures, as opposed to addressing the conditions of precarity, vulnerability, and marginalization that upend the lives of many and which often lead to cycles of over-policing and criminalization? Why is there always money to increase police and correctional budgets, and to imprison more women (and imprison women better), but not adequately fund policies or practices such as basic income, mental health and addiction services, universal daycare, legal aid, before- and after-school programming, increases to

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minimum wage, and affordable housing? The negative impacts of such policies underscore the lives of many criminalized women, especially Indigenous women. Through the rhetoric of rehabilitation and reintegration, the prison masks how it sustains the racialized narratives of colonialism, through the tacit displacement, attempted assimilation, and forced dispossession, of Indigenous women (and men). This is where necropower functions, at the crisis rates of the over-surveillance, policing, and incarceration of Indigenous peoples, and at the “benevolent destruction” of Indigenous cultures and communities for their “own good” in “order to ‘save the people’ them from themselves” (Mbembé, 2003, p. 22). We never seem to pause long enough to question the potentiality of reintegrating someone to society who was never integrated—and never meant to be integrated—in the first place. Jackson (2013) makes clear that where the primary function of carceral institutions is to exclude and incapacitate individuals and groups from civic life, the state’s treatment of prisoners does not matter and is inimical to reintegration. While prison is effective in the social death of all prisoners, carceral institutions generate a higher degree of social death for some; particularly for racialized and sexed/gendered “others” (Jackson, 2013). Everything from the cell conditions, programming, social contact, food allocation, adequate/accessible health care, prevention and risk reduction tools, and educational and employment opportunities are impacted; intentionally subjecting some to worse conditions and fewer rehabilitative supports. Le Marcis (2019) argues that carceral institutions are designed to sustain the lives of certain prisoners, while others to die through neglect, or through state-sanctioned killings (e.g., capital punishment). Although based on fieldwork in Côte d’Ivoire’s main prison, and evaluating cases of tuberculosis transmission and treatment, Le Marcis’ (2019) reflections apply to the necropolitical conditions of Canadian carceral settings. Particularly when evaluated against frequently reported on issues such as rampant overcrowding, over-prescription of psychotropic drugs, use of force against prisoners with mental illness, correctional staff resistance against the introduction of harm reduction measures, the ill-treatment of pregnant women prisoners, and inadequate progress in preventing in-custody deaths, among others (Chan, Chuen, & McLeod, 2017). The conditions of control and capture are heightened

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for Indigenous prisoners, not only are they overrepresented in the prison population, but they are held longer and at higher security levels than prisoners with similar circumstances and backgrounds (Wesley, 2012). Indigenous women are more likely to be in segregation (Native Women’s Association of Canada, 2017; Wesley, 2012). The mass incarceration of Indigenous women in Canada today can be understood as a continued colonial (necropolitical) tactic of control, assimilation, and extermination. Canadian society and its institutions are rooted in domination, misogyny, and violence against Indigenous women. “[O]riginally developed for the needs of white men resulting in assessments, services, and programs that are not gender- or culture-­ specific,” Restoule (2018, p. 227) argues that the carceral system inadequately addresses the specific risk factors and health needs of Indigenous women. Without attending to the intersectionality of gendered and raced risk factors and needs, services, supports, assessments, and programmes are designated for women as a general group or as Indigenous, grouping men and women together (Restoule, 2018, p.  227). This renders the unique contexts of Indigenous women’s offending invisible in the carceral context. The prison, then, functions as a tool of not only geographic, but also cultural, dispossession and containment. Incarcerated bodies are not only disposable and socially unwanted, but they are also overwhelmingly racialized and gendered bodies. In facilitating the continued disappearance of Indigenous women from communities and families, white settler colonialism is upheld, people are extracted from their communities, and practices of racial and gendered violence are facilitated.

Conclusion: Strength and Resilience All of this is not to imply that Indigenous women are mere victims or that they lack agency. Colonialism is not only a condition of (necropolitical) existence but also the impetus for resistance. Joan Sangster (1999) writes: “At once marginalized, yet simultaneously the focus of intense government interest, Native women have struggled to make their own voices heard” (p. 32). While the racist, sexist, and sexualized myths regarding

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Indigenous women pervade settler cultures—Indigenous women have, and continue to, resist. This is evidenced from the rallies and marches; to the hunger strikes of Attawapiskat Chief Theresa Spence (2013), or of Blackfoot Chief Davyn Calfchild to bring attention to, among other issues, the missing and murdered Indigenous women (2017); to public vigils; to social movements and awareness campaigns such as ribbon skirts, memorial quilts, and the laying of red dressing on the steps of Ottawa’s Parliament Hill; and the courageous sharing of stories, experiences, truths, and testimony as part of the Truth-Gathering Process to the National Inquiry (2019). As mentioned at the outset of this chapter, while all Indigenous communities are not one and the same, something that is common is the respect and value given to Indigenous women within traditional cultures and governance. Along these lines, we argue that in order for the mass imprisonment of Indigenous women to stop, Canada must wake-up to the value, sacredness, and strength of Indigenous women. Before the arrival of the colonizers there was no mass incarceration of people—and notably Indigenous women. There were no use of bars, guns, or segregation cells. Tsistsistas (Cheyenne), once said “A nation is not conquered until the hearts of its women are on the ground” (in Brant Castellano, 2009, p. 203). Colonizers have tried very hard, and many continue to try hard, to get the hearts of women on the ground, and notably Indigenous women. The mass incarceration of Indigenous women is a blatant example of this. Colonial Canada has done this in an attempt to conquer Indigenous nations—but they did not succeed—Indigenous women are still here. Indigenous women are forever sacred, and while the colonizers have caused detrimental harm, pain, and hurt—Indigenous women, and thus, Indigenous nations are not conquered. With this in mind, one strategy moving forward is the uplifting of Indigenous women. This involves celebrating Indigenous women’s resilience and resistance and honouring Indigenous women as sacred human beings. As stated by Dawn Martin-Hill (2003), “The promotion of women as sacred is essential for all of our Nations” (p. 118). One project aimed to celebrate Indigenous women’s strength, resilience, creativity, and resistance to Indigenous injustices is the Resilience Project. Curated by Lee-Ann Martin, the Resilience Project put 50

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contemporary artworks by Indigenous women artists on 174 billboards across Canada on major roads and highways from June 1, to August 1, 2018. Twenty-four were static paper posters and 150 were digital featuring all 50 artworks on a rotation throughout the duration of the project (Kestler-D’Amours, 2018). The places for the billboards and posters were chosen in specific places. This has included major highways and roads, large city centres, as well is in rural isolated communities. Some were also displayed in areas where Indigenous women and girls have gone missing or been found murdered. One of the organizers of this project, Shawna Dempsey, was cited as stating that “This project puts the creativity and the strengths and the resilience of indigenous women in the locations from which so many women and girls have gone missing,” (in Kestler-­ D’Amours, 2018). Dempsey states further that: It positions those voices and those women not as victims, but as creative, strong leaders in our creative community. … It’s a way of celebrating indigenous women artists, but also reframing indigenous womanhood beyond the statistics that somehow we just accept as a country. (Kestler-­ D’Amours, 2018)

One of the artists, Skawennati, a Mohawk artist from the Kahnawake, had a still from one of her films displayed on a billboard. It is called Jingle Dancers Assembled. This image shows a Mohawk woman travelling to the future, to the year 2112, and she is shown dancing amongst other jingle dress dancers at a mega-powwow in Winnipeg (Martin, n.d.). She explained that her piece questions how traditional regalia changes over time, and what is kept and what is discarded, stating that the main message is to show that Indigenous people will “be thriving in the future. … Not just surviving, not just existing, but thriving” (in Kestler-D’Amours, 2018). As such, the strength and sacredness of Indigenous women must be promoted throughout Canada to shift and dismantle old worn-out colonial misguided notions that maintain the oppressive racist structures known as Canadian prisons.

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IwAR3e95vO83_zYM-hZd5IsKy-H5mhN6Mdcar2tfKTGFBNrSbM9tgF-uckFLw Chan, J., Chuen, L., & McLeod, M. (2017, July 20). Everything you were never taught about Canada’s prison systems. Intersectional Analysis. Retrieved from http://www.intersectionalanalyst.com/intersectional-analyst/2017/7/20/ everything-you-were-never-taught-about-canadas-prison-systems Comack, E. (2018). Coming back to jail. Women, trauma, and criminalization. Halifax, Canada: Fernwood. Deer, S. (2015). The beginning and end of rape: Confronting sexual violence in Native America. Minneapolis, MN: The University of Minnesota Press. Dhillon, S. (2017, July 19). Indigenous women receive ‘harsher punishments’ in prison, Ex-inmate tells solitary confinement trial. The Globe and Mail. Retrieved from https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/british-columbia/ indigenous-women-receive-harsher-punishments-in-prison-ex-inmate-tellssolitary-confinement-trial/article35748526/ Emberley, J. (2007). Defamiliarizing the Aboriginal: Cultural practices and decolonization in Canada. Toronto, Canada: University of Toronto Press. Fanon, F. (1991 [1963]). The wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove Weidenfeld. Ferrante, A. A. (2017). Biopower is the New Black, again. Queer bodies ‘beyond bars’. DiGeSt, 4(2), 61–74. Foucault, M. (1976). The history of sexuality. Volume 1: An introduction. New York: Random House Vintage. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Random House Vintage. Green, J. (2017). Taking more account of Indigenous feminism. In J.  Green (Ed.), Making space for Indigenous feminism (2nd ed., pp. 1–20). Halifax & Winnipeg, Canada: Fernwood Publishing. Guenther, L. (2018, July 6). What is lost when we pave over a prison. The Globe and Mail. Retrieved from https://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/ article-what-is-lost-when-we-pave-over-a-prison/ Hansen, J. (2018, November 13). Indigenous women in Canada continue to be coercively or forcibly sterilized. Amnesty International. Retrieved from https://www.amnesty.ca/blog/indigenous-women-canada-continue-becoercively-or-forcibly-sterilized Jackson, J. L. (2013). Sexual necropolitics and prison rape elimination. Signs, 39(1), 191–220. Jago, R. (2017, March 29). Budget 2017 sets the stage for a Nation-to-Nation partnership with Indigenous people, but fails to mention the role of indi-

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6 Transcending Colonial Legacies: From Criminal Justice to Indigenous Women’s Healing Thalia Anthony, Gemma Sentance, and Lorana Bartels

Introduction: Cycles of Indigenous Women’s Criminalisation and Inter-generational Trauma This chapter explores how institutional inter-generational trauma is perpetuated by criminal justice interventions into the lives of Indigenous women in Australia. We explain how incarceration, including in police The authors gratefully acknowledge the feedback and comments from Kimberly Chiswell, Michelle Toy and Bronwyn Penrith.

T. Anthony (*) • G. Sentance University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] L. Bartels Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia University of Canberra, Bruce, ACT, Australia University of Tasmania, Hobart, TAS, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_6

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watch-houses, prisons and youth detention, is a form of institutional violence for Indigenous women. Prisons coexist with other forms of institutional violence that constitute the colonial project, including the forced removal of Indigenous children and dispossession of land. We begin this chapter by illustrating how past and present colonial policies and practices have shaped Indigenous women’s lives. The chapter then examines the ways in which the criminal justice system characterises trauma to problematise and pathologise Indigenous women. The effect is to further institutionalise and traumatise Indigenous women, rather than facilitate healing. It calls for a shift away from institutional discourses of “trauma” and towards recognition of oppression, suffering and resistance. Alternative healing models are outlined in the final section. These models have been initiated by Indigenous organisations to build on women’s strengths in a holistic and self-determination framework. Unlike deficit-based institutional models that seek to “fix” Indigenous women, healing models are premised on recognising Indigenous women’s dignity and cultural standpoint. They harness Indigenous ways of doing, being and knowing (Sherwood, 2010, p. 56). This chapter concludes by suggesting that healing is also collective and involves the decolonisation of socio-economic-racial relationships. Huggins et  al. (1991) articulated that their struggles as Indigenous women are against the state, the system, social injustices and, above all, racism (p.  506). These struggles are in themselves part of healing, because they enliven Indigenous women’s collective action. As noted by Torres Strait Islander, Dr Noritta Morseu-­ Diop (2017), justice and healing materialise in the voice-claiming of Indigenous women.

Decolonising Concepts of Trauma Indigenous women scholars, practitioners and activists have identified how Indigenous women’s roles, responsibilities and relationships are undermined through dispossession of land, children and culture, as well as exploitation of Indigenous women’s labour. They variously describe the effects of these colonial processes as Indigenous inter-generational trauma,

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grief, loss and cultural destruction1 (e.g., Atkinson, 2002a, 2002b, 2008; Behrendt, 1997, 2016; Braveheart-Jordan & DeBruyn, 1995; Cox, 2017; Huggins, 2018; Linklater, 2014; Longbottom, Roe, & Fredericks, 2016; Morseu-Diop, 2017; Roach, 2016; Sherwood, 2015; Watson, 2008; Wirihana & Smith, 2014). Dixie Link-Gordon (in Wahlquist, 2016) described the build-up of inter-generational trauma on Indigenous families “like layers of sediment since colonisation”. We argue in this chapter that these concepts of institutional inter-­ generational trauma, oppression and suffering are at odds with the Western bio-medical concept of trauma (see Richardson & Wade, 2010). Bio-medical concepts are embedded in trauma-informed practices that are widespread in the Global North, including in corrections facilities (see Miller & Najavits, 2012) and embedded in cognitive behavioural therapy and skills development “care models” for Aboriginal women in prisons and mainstream diversion schemes (Cox, 2017). They focus on the pathology of the individual victim, which conceals the social experiences of colonisation (Dudgeon & Walker, 2015; see also Linklater, 2014). As Clark has noted: “A focus on trauma as an individual health problem prevents and obscures a more critical, historically-situated focus on social problems under a (neo)colonial state that contribute to violence” (2016, p. 1). We engage the terminology of institutional inter-generational trauma to explore the role of institutionally sanctioned violence and oppression in the colonial legacy of the criminal justice system. We argue that the Australian criminal justice system is complicit in institutional inter-­ generational trauma, by oppressing and violating the rights of Indigenous women. Dudgeon and Walker explained the impact of such trauma on social and emotional well-being as follows: “For the majority of Indigenous Australians, colonial disruptions to domains of family, spirituality, land, and culture have often produced a profound sense of grief and a deep longing to reconnect with their cultural heritage and ancestry” (2015, p. 281).

 Atkinson and Ober (1995, p. 201) also refer to this as “dispossession disaster trauma”.

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Intersectionality and Histories of Institutional Inter-generational Trauma Our intersectional analysis of the oppression of Indigenous women in past and ongoing colonial practices draws on the colonial frame developed by Bidjara and Birri-Gubba Juru woman, Professor Jackie Huggins and her colleagues (1991). In the widely cited Bell-Huggins debate (for discussion, see Moreton-Robinson, 2000), Huggins et  al. located Indigenous women’s subordination in the colonial matrix of power: “our country was colonized on both a racially and sexually imperialistic base”, yet “sexism does not and will never prevail over racial domination in this country” (1991,  p. 506). They emphasised that colonial interventions have been a thread in Indigenous women’s lives in remote and urban centres. More recently, the subordination of Indigenous women has been described as “patriarchal colonialism” (Baldry & Cunneen, 2014; Guerrero, 2003). The imposition of hierarchies of race and gender were foreign to Indigenous societies. While Indigenous women and men, pre-­ colonisation, had separate roles, they were not based on oppression or subordination (Behrendt, 1995). Dispossession introduced a “coloniality of gender”, in which gendered hierarchies have been central to the “coloniality of power” (Lugones, 2008). In Australia, sexual stereotyping of Aboriginal men and women has pervaded administrative decision-­ making, policy formulation and engagements between Aboriginal people and their employers, the police and White male sexual predators (Goodall, 1995; also see Conor, 2016; Moreton-Robinson, 2000). Goenpul woman, Professor Aileen Moreton-Robinson has explained how White Australia has come to “know” the “Indigenous woman” through the colonial gaze in which “Indigenous women are objects who lack agency” (2000, p. 1). Larissa Behrendt (2000) and Nicole Watson (2011; 2014) have explained the postcolonial state’s relationship to Indigenous women as a colonial binary of control and blindness. This binary has targeted Indigenous women through coercive legal practices, including in the criminal justice system, while ignoring them as citizens with legal rights.

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The silencing of Indigenous women has a “deep colonising” effect through governments being seen to enact change in the name of Indigenous women, as occurred with the Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER), without their participation or design (Bird Rose, 1996). The NTER resulted in the theft of Aboriginal women’s land, restrictions on their welfare income, policing and epistemic violence (Watson, 2011). These colonising experiences for Indigenous women were cemented in the nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries, when they were incarcerated under protectionist legislation. Through confining Indigenous women on settlements, homesteads, orphanages and missions, the state implemented its objectives of civilisation, acculturation and assimilation. The Aboriginal Protection Acts across Australia, like in Canada, assigned a “Protector of Aborigines” (a White male, often a police officer or pastoralist) to control Aboriginal peoples’ employment, money, sexual relations and marriage, rations and movement (Anthony, 2013). Aboriginal women were subject to strict routines, including domestic labour that was often conjoined with sexual servitude to White employers (Huggins, 1987/1988; Wolfe, 1994). Aboriginal women who tried to escape from domestic servitude and other indentured labour under these Acts risked being “hunted, captured and punished” by police and their masters, including punishment in the form of a “thrashing or prison” (Huggins, 1987/1988, p. 14; also see Huggins, 1995). Revealing the insidious intersection between colonisation and criminalisation, police were at the forefront of colonising Aboriginal women, including by taking their land and children, unleashing violence on Indigenous nations and controlling Indigenous lives. Indigenous women were also denied their roles as mothers. As Robertson, Demosthenous, and Demosthenous point out, although “Aboriginal women were seen as fit to care for and rear the children of white women … they were not seen as fit to mother their own” (2005, p. 41). This either resulted in epistemic violence and threats (e.g., being told that they could not care for their children) or brutal tactics, where police, protectors and welfare agents dragged away screaming Indigenous children who were clinging to their mothers (Haebich, 2000). These children were then thrown into pickup trucks and transported long distances from their homes and families (National Inquiry into the Separation of

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Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families (National Inquiry), 1997; Tranter, 2003). Evidence reported by the National Inquiry reveals the damaging tactics of police in removing children: I was at the post office with my Mum and Auntie [and cousin]. They put us in the police ute and said they were taking us to Broome. They put the mums in there as well. But when we’d gone [about ten miles] they stopped, and threw the mothers out of the car. We jumped on our mothers’ backs, crying, trying not to be left behind. But the policemen pulled us off and threw us back in the car. They pushed the mothers away and drove off, while our mothers were chasing the car, running and crying after us. (1997, p. 6)

Colonisation is an ongoing experience for Indigenous women. They continue to disproportionately experience the removal of their children; imprisonment; discrimination by the state and private sector; poverty; and dispossession of land, through mining, pipelines and other capitalist pursuits. Institutional inter-generational trauma flows from these collective and overlapping experiences of colonial harm and oppression. Today, police continue to be involved in the forcible removal of Indigenous children from their families. This was detailed by Aboriginal grandmothers, mothers and children in evidence to the Northern Territory Royal Commission. One mother spoke about being stood over by police with guns, who threatened to arrest them if she did not hand over her children (Royal Commission into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory (Royal Commission), 2017a). Another Aboriginal mother said that six police officers dragged her son away from her, while she called out to her crying, begging son that “there’s nothing I can do” (Royal Commission, 2017a, p. 89). As a result, she experienced the grave realisation “of what happened with our grandparents and the Stolen Generation”, involving the forcible, mass removal of Aboriginal children over decades (Royal Commission, 2017a, p.  91). Another woman expressed the removal of her granddaughter from her care as a death within herself: “I see a death in me. I can’t take it anymore. It’s just too shaming. It’s like heart attack” (Royal Commission, 2017a, p. 92).

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Linking the Past to the Present We link the past experiences of institutional trauma to the present in two ways. We refer to how the past policies and practices of dispossession and child removal contribute to ongoing trauma for Indigenous women (see Ralph et al., 2018). We additionally refer to how contemporary institutionalisation renews trauma. Survivors of colonial violence and cultural destruction transfer their trauma to second and further generations of descendants of the survivors (Atkinson, Nelson, & Atkinson, 2010). This is enforced through descendants’ own experiences of colonisation, creating “cumulative emotional and psychological wounding” (Mu’id, 2004, p.  9). Inter-generational colonisation is a key challenge to healing (see Atkinson, 2013). Māori Professor Linda Tuhiwai Smith has potently highlighted the past and ongoing effects: Imperialism still hurts, still destroys and is reforming itself constantly. Indigenous peoples as an international group have had to challenge, understand and have a shared language for talking about their history, the sociology, psychology and the politics of imperialism and colonialism as an epic story telling of huge devastation, painful struggle and persistent survival. (1999, p. 19)

The continuing harm from the Stolen Generations and ongoing stealing of children are re-traumatising Indigenous mothers and children (Atkinson, 2002a; 2002b). The report of the National Inquiry extensively documented the grief and loss arising from stealing Indigenous children. Decades after the official laws of the Stolen Generations discontinued, Indigenous women, children and others left behind continued to experience “immense pain, grief and anguish” (National Inquiry, 1997, p. 185). Indigenous mothers felt “hurt”, “shamed and humiliated” and were made to “feel [like] failures; unworthy of loving and caring for their own children” (1997, p.  185). Consequently, they “judge themselves harshly, never forgiving themselves for losing their children” (1997, p.  185). While in care, many Aboriginal children suffer institutional abuse, including sexual abuse, which aggravates the injustice.

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Indigenous mothers’ loss of their children includes the denial “of the opportunity to participate in growing up the next generation” and shaping “the future of their community” (Link-Up submission, cited in the National Inquiry, 1997, p. 185). Forcible separation meant Indigenous children lost opportunities to “acquire cultural knowledge”, develop their identity and spiritual connection to country and build their communities (National Inquiry, 1997, p. 488). This limited Indigenous parents’ and grandparents’ leadership and ability to “provide the vision, the strength and the responsibility to carry our communities forward into the future” (Link-Up submission, cited in National Inquiry, 1997, p. 242). A submission to the National Inquiry (1997) by the Sydney Aboriginal Mental Health Unit stated that the ongoing child removals are “tantamount to a continuing cultural and spiritual genocide both as an individual and a community experience” (p. 171) (italics added).

 ontemporary Manifestations of Institutional C Inter-generational Trauma for Indigenous Women Contemporary Australian state policies and practices, whether overtly discriminatory, such as the position in the Northern Territory setting aside laws for regulating Indigenous land and welfare,2 or implicitly biased against Indigenous women, such as in the universal childcare and protection laws, have a detrimental impact on Indigenous women’s well-­ being. Stereotypes about Indigenous women and mothers exact trauma on Indigenous women targeted by the child “welfare”, “health” and criminal “justice systems” (Chelsea Bond & Juanita Sherwood, cited in Behrendt, 2019). The statistics below paint a picture of the ongoing and disproportionate harms experienced by Indigenous women and girls in these systems. They are just a snapshot and do not address all indices of  Northern Territory National Emergency Act 2007 (Cth); Stronger Futures in the Northern Territory Act 2007 (Cth). These laws required the suspension of the Racial Discrimination Act 1975 (Cth) and have contributed to unprecedented numbers of Aboriginal women having their children removed, entering prisons and having their daughters enter detention centres (Royal Commission, 2017b). 2

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institutional trauma, including poverty, labour exploitation and a lack of access to education, safe housing, food and water. Therefore, the discussion below is part of a conglomerate of intersecting institutional trauma predictors, including, but not limited to, everyday racism, discrimination in education, employment, housing and mental health interventions (see Sherwood, 2015).

Disproportionate Taking of Indigenous Children Indigenous children continue to be removed from families and communities at alarmingly high and disproportionate rates. Family Matters et al. (2017) reported that 15 out of 1000 Indigenous children are admitted into out-of-home care. At June 2018, Indigenous children were ten times more likely than their non-Indigenous peers to be placed on care and protection orders (Australian Institute of Health and Welfare (AIHW), 2019a). According to data provided to Bartels by the AIHW (2019b) in 2016–2017, more than a third of girls in out-of-home care (36.8%) were Indigenous. This creates new layers of institutional trauma to add to enduring trauma from the Stolen Generations. It has been estimated that there are nearly 21,000 Aboriginal survivors remaining from the pre-1972 official Stolen Generations period, 56% of whom were Indigenous women (AIHW, 2018a).

Victimisation: Family Violence and Personal Violence Compared with non-Indigenous women, Indigenous women experience higher rates of family violence (AIHW, 2018b) and fewer protections and supports, including by the health system. In 2017, Indigenous women were 32  times more likely to be hospitalised due to family violence (AIHW, 2018b). Despite populist stereotypes, family violence is not necessarily inflicted by Indigenous men, with many non-Indigenous men bearing responsibility (Our Watch, 2018). Given that 78.2% of Indigenous persons are in a relationship with a non-Indigenous person (Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), 2018a, Table  3.2), many

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Indigenous women are likely to experience family violence at the hands of non-Indigenous men. This demonstrates the interaction of gendered and racial harms for Indigenous women. More broadly, violence is inflicted on Indigenous women at greater proportions than non-Indigenous women. The ABS (2019b, Table 17) recorded that the assault victimisation rate in 2018 was 4.3 times higher for Indigenous women than non-Indigenous women in New South Wales (NSW), 9.6 times higher in South Australia and 13.1 times higher in the Northern Territory (data were not available for the other jurisdictions). However, these statistics are likely to be an under-estimate, given the high levels of non-disclosure of violence on the part of Indigenous women (see Willis, 2011). Furthermore, Indigenous women victims of violence are less likely to receive legal protection and justice (Atkinson, 2001; Purdy & McGlade, 2001), continuing a frontier legacy that sanctioned violence and rape against Indigenous women (Behrendt, 2000).

Discrimination in the Health System Indigenous women experience racial bias in the health system, which extends to a lack of healthcare for Indigenous women in custody. Inadequate healthcare based on racial stereotypes of Indigenous women was evident in the treatment of Ms Dhu and Aunty Tanya Day who died in police custody (cited in Behrendt, 2019). Bias in the health system is due to stereotyping, prejudice and/or discrimination (Paradies et  al., 2015; Paradies, Truong, & Priest, 2014; Sherwood, 2013). Aboriginal health scholars Bond and Sherwood assert that it is not uncommon for Aboriginal women and mothers to be turned away from health services, not to be believed about illnesses and to receive culturally unsafe health care (cited in Behrendt, 2019). The ramifications of discrimination in healthcare result in Indigenous women dying from treatable illnesses. For instance Indigenous women are less likely than non-Indigenous women to receive cervical and breast cancer diagnosis and screening and treatment (Dasgupta et al., 2017; Diaz et al., 2015; Moore et al., 2016; Whop et al., 2016). In the recent inquest into the death of Wiradjuri woman Naomi Williams,  who died of

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septicaemia when she was six months pregnant, the NSW Deputy State Coroner found bias in the way she was treated by the hospital staff and made several recommendations to address racism and develop culturally safe healthcare for Indigenous people (Jackson, 2019).

From Welfare to Penal Incarceration Whereas earlier periods of incarceration under protectionist legislation had a “welfare” countenance, incarceration in late modernity has taken the prevailing form of penal custody, notwithstanding ongoing practices of detaining Indigenous girls and women in out-of-home care, residential institutions, group homes and psychiatric wards (Royal Commission, 2017a). There has been a steep increase in the number of Indigenous women and girls being sent to prisons and youth detention since the late twentieth century. In the Northern Territory, over the past decade there has been the creation of an Indigenous female youth detention population (Royal Commission, 2017a). The number of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander adult women in prison increased by 20%, from 1025 in June 2015 (ABS, 2016, Table  4) to 1230, only two years later (ABS, 2018b, Table 5). In June 2019, Indigenous women were nearly 14 times more likely to be imprisoned than the average for  Australian women (483.5 and 35.2 per 100,000 respectively) (ABS, 2019a, Tables 12 and 15). Given that over one-third (33.9%) of women in prison are Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander (ABS, 2019a, Tables 1 and 11), the rate of over-representation compared to non-Indigenous women is significantly higher. Indigenous women and girls’ engagement with the criminal justice system is typified by cycling in and out of prison on remand and short sentences for minor crimes (Australian Law Reform Commission (ALRC), 2017; see also Anthony & Blagg, 2013; MacGillivray & Baldry, 2015), with a continuity of surveillance in their lives. Indigenous women in custody are often treated indecently and cruelly, including forced strip searches, assaults and inappropriate touching (Human Rights Law Centre, 2017; Royal Commission, 2017a). They are disproportionately confined in high risk cells (Armstrong, Baldry, & Chartand, 2007) and receive inadequate health care (Wahlquist, Evershed,

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& Allam, 2018). Prejudice in prisons resulted in women such as Yamatji woman, Ms Dhu, dying in inhumane circumstances (Braybrook, 2017; Fogliani, 2016). Incarceration represents a form of “institutional violence” for Indigenous women, because it fractures bonds and relationships (Blagg & Anthony, 2019, p. 218). It is estimated that 80% of Indigenous women in prisons are mothers (Sherwood & Kendall, 2013; also see Bagaric, 2019). Families suffer from being denied mothers, sisters, aunties, daughters and grandmothers. Indigenous children of mothers in prison face an increased likelihood of being placed in the out-of-home care system permanently (ALRC, 2017). Yued-Kanyigang woman and researcher, Dorinda Cox (2017), explains the critical effect of prison for Indigenous women in terms of interrupting “attachment to their children resulting in transmission of inter-generational trauma and further entrenching cycles of disempowerment, sometimes resulting in multiple generations of Aboriginal women from the same families incarcerated at the same time” (p. 1).

The Child Protection to Incarceration Pipeline State interventions cycle in and out of their lives to produce a continuum of control: one of these is the cross-over between child welfare and criminal justice interventions. Indigenous babies and girls who are subject to child removal tend to also be subject to incarceration. Nearly three-­ quarters (72%) of Indigenous girls in youth detention had also been in the child protection system (AIHW, 2019c; also see McFarlane, 2010). Indigenous girls face greater reporting to police in foster homes, group homes and residential institutions, including for minor property offences within homes (Royal Commission, 2017a),3 putting them at greater risk of being charged and ending up in youth detention.

 This has also been reported by NSW Aboriginal Legal Service lawyers interviewed by Thalia Anthony as part of the Australian Research Council Project, ‘Where are the women in Indigenous sentencing?’ (March, 2019). 3

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 haracterisation of Indigenous Women C in the Criminal Justice System: Trauma, Risk and Deficit Indigenous women in the criminal justice system are characterised and assessed in terms of their risk. Increasingly this includes the risk generated from their experiences of trauma, including in relation to child removal, homelessness and family violence. This catalyses penal interventions (in the same way it does for child welfare interventions), rather than reducing them. Courts and corrections agencies on occasion refer to Indigenous women’s “intersecting identities”—as both “offenders” and victims—but primarily with a view to “fixing” and controlling them through increasing state measures, rather than adopting healing strategies. In yarning circles on sentencing, conducted in NSW prisons, Indigenous women told Thalia Anthony and Gemma Sentance that their past is used to punish them and they felt that there was little acknowledgment of the good work that they have undertaken.4 There is little focus by corrections agencies or courts on institutional inter-generational trauma, including how it is compounded by imprisonment (Shepherd & Anthony, 2018). The focus is instead on the perceived problems of the individual victims, rather than broader systemic issues (see also Anthony, Bartels, & Hopkins, 2015). We highlight some sentencing remarks by higher courts to demonstrate how they have framed Indigenous women’s circumstances in ways that problematise the women. In the Victorian Supreme Court (2014, [34]–[35]), sentencing remarks in the case of DPP v Kerr [2014] VSC 374 focused on her physiological, psychological and addiction problems and “intellectual impairment”. Justice Hollingworth asserted that: You are easily irritable, and prone to angry outbursts and reckless and self-­ destructive behaviour, all of which can be exacerbated by alcohol. It seems that some of that behaviour may be related to your post-traumatic stress disorder. In so far as that behaviour may be a personality trait, courts now recognise that the experience of growing up in a socially-disadvantaged  Deidentified Aboriginal women in yarning circle in prison, March 2019.

4

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environment, surrounded by alcohol abuse and violence, may leave a mark on a person throughout life [citing Bugmy v R [2013] HCA 37]; your upbringing has helped make up the person that you are today. [34]

The Court did not locate the trauma beyond her childhood abuse. Nor did Hollingworth J consider Kerr’s sexual victimisation at the time of the offence, the inadequate services for Aboriginal women in the Victorian regional town of Echuca where she lived, or the detrimental effect on her well-being  of the state  removing her six children from her care. Her trauma was clearly treated narrowly to explain wrongdoing. The Australian Capital Territory Supreme Court (ACTSC) (2014) case of Smorhun v Devine [2014] ACTSC 208 involved an Indigenous woman who had been sentenced for driving offences (drink-driving, failing to obey traffic signal and speeding)—activities that commonly give rise to the criminalisation of Indigenous women (MacGillivray & Baldry, 2015). The Supreme Court referred to the woman’s history of being in an abusive relationship but did not provide mitigation in this regard (ACTSC, 2014a). Instead, in response to the Crown’s appeal, Penfold J increased the woman’s sentence, due to the magistrate’s failure to give reasons for accepting the relatively lenient sentence handed down on the advice of the Indigenous panel of the Galambany Circle Sentencing Court (“Circle Court”). In Smorhun v Devine (No 2) [2014] ACTSC 302 (ACTSC, 2014b), the Supreme Court resentenced the “offender”, focusing on the serious nature of the offences to more than double the fines imposed. It did not accommodate the Circle Court’s concern that Devine’s alcohol consumption was for the sole reason of pain relief and her healing could be better managed through Aboriginal law and communicating with her Elders. In other words, the Court dismissed the trauma underpinning her issues and any healing remedies. In Fejo v Sims & Anor [2014] NTSC 9 (Northern Territory Supreme Court (NTSC), 2014), a woman who belonged to the Larrakia community was convicted of shoplifting and was in breach of a suspended sentence. The person’s criminal history since 2003 consisted of five stealing offences and one offence of common assault. The Northern Territory Supreme Court dismissed the appeal against the severity of an imprisonment sentence. Evidence was submitted that, in the seven months

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between Fejo’s offence and the sentencing hearing, she had stopped drinking and re-established a supportive relationship with her partner, demonstrating “that remaining in the community was likely to greatly enhance the chances of further reform” and rehabilitation, whereas “any sentence of imprisonment was likely to significantly undermine the progress she had made” (2014, [30]). This was especially so, given that imprisonment increased the likelihood of re-entering prison by almost 50% and was “counter-productive as an instrument of reform and rehabilitation” (2014, [32]). However, the Supreme Court found that these arguments were not material matters to the case and would undermine individualised justice. The fact that the issues were deemed irrelevant in this case reveals the failure to see systemic issues connected with institutional inter-generational trauma as directly bearing on Indigenous women. These sentencing remarks reveal the focus of the courts on the risks Indigenous women present to the community and the need to manage these risks through carceral options. The Human Rights Law Centre and Change the Record (2017) noted that “the criminal justice system has been blind … for too long” to the everyday realities of “systemic race and sex discrimination” for Indigenous women (p. 12) (also see ALRC, 2017). In relation to sentencing, Watson (2008) noted that the “dominant conversation never engaged the view of inter-generational trauma and its source—colonialism” (p. 15). Accordingly, “the complexity of Aboriginal traumas will also stay stuck in the colonial paradigm of blaming the ‘backward native’”. Moreover, it does not give any significant weight to the strengths Indigenous women can offer to the community.

Healing Alternatives to Custodial Settings Congruent with healing is inverting the risk and deficit model that is applied to Indigenous women. We need to see the criminal justice system as a risk for Indigenous women. It contributes to institutional inter-­ generational trauma by undermining social, cultural and emotional well-­ being. Its deficit lies in its failure to heal Indigenous women and the continuation (rather than discontinuation) of cycles of incarceration,

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oppression and discrimination (ALRC, 2017; Cunneen, Rowe, & Tauri, 2017; Human Rights Law Centre (HRLC) & Change the Record, 2017). By turning our critical gaze to the state as part of the problem, rather than the solution, we can open our eyes to strategies outside of the state rubric. These include Indigenous-owned strategies that counter-balance the impacts of state interventions through Indigenous resistance and resurgence. Indigenous justice advocates frame this in terms of a shift from prisons to healing and well-being centres (Morseu-Diop, 2017; National Conference on Indigenous Incarceration, 2018). Healing involves not only individuals but communities. It strengthens Indigenous self-determination on a collective and personal level (Cox, 2008). Healing programmes and services located in Indigenous organisations strengthen the community by virtue of providing Indigenous people with control over their own well-being. The work of these Indigenous organisations strengthens bonds and relationships among people and with country (Cox, Young, & Bairnsfather-Scott, 2009). They also enhance the social and emotional well-being of Indigenous users of their services by operating in a holistic, strengths-based framework. They are centred on Indigenous knowledges, cultures and spirituality (Sherwood et  al., 2015, pp.  186–187, see, e.g., Murrigunyah Family & Cultural Healing Centre, 2019). Healing programmes embed Indigenous women in their communities and include their children and support family relationships (ALRC, 2017; HRLC & Change the Record, 2017). The Indigenous women’s centres illustrated below are controlled by Indigenous women and draw on Indigenous women’s strengths, support networks and leadership, whether that be in urban, regional or remote communities. The Indigenous women who manage the programmes live within the local community and have shared experiences and histories with members of the community, which is regarded as necessary for healing (Cox et  al., 2009). This ensures that programmes prioritise and respond to the values and aspirations identified by Indigenous women who are leaders, mentors, mothers, grandmothers, aunties and sisters within the community. In regional NSW, the Waminda South Coast Women’s Health and Welfare Aboriginal Corporation (2019b) seeks to empower Aboriginal women and their families to have control over their own well-being. It

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provides supportive, holistic services that include opportunities for healing, health, fitness, well-being, job support, art, culture, knowledge sharing and networking. Its healing space, known as Balaang Gunya—“women’s place/home”, was created by local Elders and Aboriginal women with a view to facilitating Aboriginal women “gain perspective, heal, revitalise and reconnect to self, community, culture and country” (Waminda, 2019a). Waminda works in resistance to the oppressive interventions confronting its Aboriginal women, including in the child protection system and criminal justice system, and supports Aboriginal women’s ways of knowing, doing and being. In the remote Kimberley region of Western Australia, the Marninwarntikura Women’s Centre in Fitzroy Crossing is a healing centre developed and led by local Aboriginal women to heal their women. Marninwarntikura (2019b) is a Walmajarri word that means “women who belong to this region, these countries and each other, have come together”. Marninwarntikura Women’s Centre supports Fitzroy Valley women and their families by encouraging safety and well-being, fostering leadership and financial independence. It provides activities, mentoring, support, advocacy and access to culturally sensitive and respectful services (2019a). It offers a place for women to share their experience and stories. The Aboriginal women running the centre have firsthand stories and knowledges relating to Aboriginal women’s experience (Blagg et  al., 2018). These women are in a position in which they can respond appropriately and effectively to support and empower Aboriginal women within the community, as opposed to non-Aboriginal institutions that regard Aboriginal communities and culture as a problem (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner, 2011). In Sydney’s inner-city urban setting, Mudgin-Gal (meaning “Women’s Place”) is an Aboriginal organisation “run by Aboriginal women, for Aboriginal women” (Mudgin-Gal, circa 2011, p. 2). It “offers a safe haven and active support for women, girls and their families through services” that are, according to its website (The Redfern Foundation, 2019), uniquely “peer to peer”. It provides mentoring, support for homeless Indigenous women and women experiencing family violence, and programmes to empower Aboriginal women and girls to become role models for their own children, families and communities. Co-located with

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Mudgin-Gal is the Sydney group of Grandmothers Against Removal (GMAR). This group is concerned with supporting Aboriginal mothers and grandmothers whose children and grandchildren (“grannies”) are in the child protection system. It runs workshops, clinics and outreach to strengthen parents in their fight to have their children returned to them (Anthony, 2016, p. 26; Sherwood, 2015). The importance of Indigenous healing programmes has been shown in the Aboriginal Girls Circle project, which was conducted in Dubbo, NSW (NAPCAN, 2014). The local community was provided with a platform to control the process, including through the leadership of local Elders. As a result, Indigenous culture, knowledge and values were at the core of the programme (NAPCAN, 2014). By centring culture in healing programmes, young Aboriginal women felt empowered in their capacity to honour their connections and this, consequently, increased their self-­ esteem, improved their well-being and developed cultural identity and security (NAPCAN, 2014). Black, Federico, and Bamblett (2019) recently conducted interviews on two cultural healing programmes run by the Victorian Aboriginal Child Care Agency (VACCA), an Aboriginal Community Controlled Organisation. They interviewed six survivors of institutional sexual abuse participating in the Wurundjeri Women’s Healing Programme and 11 survivors participating in the Dja Dja Wurrong Women’s Cultural Healing Gathering, as well as seven programme facilitators. They found that women being able to share their stories and connecting was a strong indicator of improved well-being. For example, one facilitator spoke about the survivor she saw as having made the most significant changes since attending the programme. This woman was initially reluctant to talk about her story, but since participating in the programme with other women who had had similar experiences, “she connected with these women and was able to share her story, which helped her process her pain and trauma” (2019, p. 1074). Across the above-mentioned programmes, there is a self-determining, strengths-based and holistic approach to healing for Indigenous women. They support the strengths, resilience and resistance that exist within community and within Indigenous women. As Black et al. (2019) noted: “Cultural healing works, it returns what was taken; this is healing.

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Strengthening and practicing culture is itself healing. Cultural healing is based on thousands of years of wisdom and the potential power of cultural healing needs to be acknowledged and amplified” (p. 1077).

 onclusion: Not Seeing the Forest C for the Trees/Not Seeing the Structural Oppression for the Trauma In this chapter, we have argued for a shift from pathologies and discourses of trauma that are embedded in the criminal justice system, to acknowledgments of inter-generational colonisation and suffering that are adopted by Indigenous women’s healing organisations. As a recolonising project, institutional classification  of  “trauma” is a vehicle for focusing on the shortcomings of individual Indigenous women and justifying further institutionalisation (see Coates & Wade, 2007). It obscures the wrongs created by the colonial-carceral system in the collective lives of Indigenous women. In addition, “trauma” can become a deficit discourse that highlights inferiority, dysfunctionality and risk of Indigenous women. It has the effect of isolating Indigenous women from, rather than connecting them to, their strengths. Through Indigenous-owned healing programmes, “relationality” with culture, country and community is nurtured (Moreton-Robinson, 2000). This is an anathema to criminal justice interventions that foster exclusion. Cox (2017) explained that imprisonment removes Aboriginal women from “their support mechanisms and their cultural obligations” and creates “a revolving door for Aboriginal women in the justice system” (p.  1). Whereas the criminal justice system undermines dignity and emphasises Indigenous women’s risks, Indigenous women’s healing organisations and programmes focus on Indigenous women’s “human dignity and resistance” in the face of demeaning, humiliating and oppressive circumstances (Richardson & Wade, 2010, pp. 137–138). While in prison, Yuin woman and member of the Stolen Generations, Vickie Roach (2008) wrote: “Real justice would be fair and ultimately seek to heal rather than punish” (p. 4). She later noted that the current

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system “punishes Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women for actions that are the consequence of failed child removal and forced assimilation policies” (Roach, 2016, p. 3). The repeal of such policies is a crucial feature of healing, alongside utilising Indigenous women’s knowledges and resources to lead responses to oppression and injustice. In the words of Cox et  al. (2009), healing enables Indigenous people to “govern their own path of healing, to deal with past injustices, such as colonisation and its effects, in order to move into a future, which will sustain their livelihood and foster a just society” (p. 151; see also Black et al., 2019).

References Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner. (2011). Social justice report. Sydney, Australia: Australian Human Rights Commission. Anthony, T. (2013). Indigenous people, crime and punishment. Abingdon, UK: Routledge. Anthony, T. (2016). Indigenous students volunteering at Werribee Clinic. In University of Technology Sydney, UTS Social Justice Report 2016, Annual Equity Report to Council, University of Technology, Sydney: 26. Retrieved from https://www.uts.edu.au/sites/default/files/2016%20Social%20 Justice%20Report.pdf Anthony, T., Bartels, L., & Hopkins, A. (2015). Lessons lost in sentencing: Welding individualised justice to Indigenous justice. Melbourne University Law Review, 39, 1–28. Anthony, T., & Blagg, H. (2013). STOP in the name of who’s law? Driving and the regulation of contested space in Central Australia. Social & Legal Studies, 22(1), 43–66. Armstrong, K., Baldry, E., & Chartand, V. (2007). Human rights abuses and discrimination against women in the criminal justice system in New South Wales. Australian Journal of Human Rights, 12(2), 203–228. Atkinson, C. (2008). The violence continuum: Australian Aboriginal male violence and generational post-traumatic stress. Unpublished thesis. Adelaide, Australia: University of South Australia. Retrieved from http://wealli.com.au/downloads/files/123456.pdf Atkinson, J. (2001). Violence against Aboriginal women: Reconstitution of Community Law—The way forward. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 5(11), 19–23.

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Diaz, A., Moore, S., Martin, J., Green, A., Garvey, G., & Valery, P. (2015). Factors associated with cancer-specific and overall survival among Indigenous and non-Indigenous gynecologic cancer patients in Queensland, Australia: A matched cohort study. International Journal Gynecol Cancer, 25(3), 542–547. Dudgeon, P., & Walker, R. (2015). Decolonising Australian psychology: Discourses, strategies, and practice. Journal of Social and Political Psychology, 3(1), 276–297. Family Matters, SNAICC – National Voice for our Children, the University of Melbourne, Griffith University, & Save the Children Australia. (2017). The family matters report 2017. Melbourne, Australia: SNAICC. Retrieved from http://www.familymatters.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/FamilyMatters-Report-2017.pdf Fogliani, R.  V. C. (2016). Inquest into the death of Julieka Ivanna Dhu, No. 11020-14. Coroner’s Court of Western Australia. Retrieved from https:// www.coronerscourt.wa.gov.au/_files/dhu%20finding.pdf Goodall, H. (1995). ‘Assimilation begins in the home’: The state and Aboriginal women’s work as mothers in New South Wales 1900s to 1960. In A. McGrath, K. Saunders, & J. Huggins (Eds.). Special Issue of Labour History – Aboriginal workers, 69, 75–101. Guerrero, J. (2003). ‘Patriarchal colonialism’ and Indigenism: Implications for Native feminist spirituality and Native womanism. Hypatia, 18(2), 58–69. Haebich, A. (2000). Broken circles: Fragmenting Indigenous families 1800–2000. Fremantle, WA: Fremantle Arts Centre Press. Huggins, J. (1987/1988). ‘Firing on in the mind’: Aboriginal women domestic servants in the inter-war years. Hecate, 13(2), 5–23. Huggins, J. (1995). White aprons, black hands: Aboriginal women domestic servants in Queensland. Special Issue of Labour History: Aboriginal workers, 69, 188–195. Huggins, J. (2018, August 3). We are here. We have survived. Help us take a stand for our nation’s future’. The Guardian. Retrieved from https:// www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/aug/03/we-are-herewe-have-survived-help-us-take-a-stand-for-our-nations-future Huggins, J., Willmont, J., Tarraoo, I., Willetts, K., Bond, L., Holt, L., et  al. (1991). Letters to the Editor. Women’s Studies Int. Forum, 14(2), 505–513. Human Rights Law Centre. (2017). Total control: Ending the routine strip searching of women in Victoria’s prisons. Melbourne, Australia: HRLC. Retrieved from https://static1.squarespace.com/static/580025f66b8f 5b2dabbe4291/t/5a287bb50d9297f066fd588d/1512602586016/ TC+Report_Online.pdf

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Human Rights Law Centre & Change the Record. (2017). Over-represented and overlooked: The crisis of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women’s growing over-imprisonment. Melbourne, Australia: HRLC & Change the Record Coalition. Retrieved from https://static1.squarespace.com/static/ 580025f66b8f5b2dabbe4291/t/59378aa91e5b6cbaaa2 81d22/1496812234196/OverRepresented_online.pdf Jackson, G. (2019, July 29). Naomi Williams inquest: Coroner finds bias in way hospital treated Aboriginal woman. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/jul/29/naomiw i l l i a m s - i n q u e s t - c o ro n e r - f i n d s - b i a s - i n - w a y - h o s p i t a l - t re a t e d aboriginal-woman Linklater, R. (2014). Decolonizing trauma work: Indigenous stories and strategies. Black Point, Canada: Fernwood Publishing. Longbottom, M., Roe, Y., & Fredericks, B. (2016, October 17). Who is talking for us? The silencing of the Aboriginal woman’s voice about violence. Croakey. Retrieved from https://croakey.org/who-is-talking-for-us-thesilencing-of-the-aboriginal-womans-voice-about-violence/ Lugones, M. (2008). Colonialidad y Género. Tabula Rasa (online), 9, 73–102. Retrieved from http://www.scielo.org.co/scielo.php?script=sci_arttext&pid= S1794-24892008000200006&lng=en&nrm=iso MacGillivray, P., & Baldry, E. (2015). Australian Indigenous women’s offending patterns. Indigenous Justice Clearinghouse, Brief. 19. Marninwarntikura. (2019a). About us. Retrieved from https://mwrc.com.au/ pages/about-us Marninwarntikura. (2019b). Welcome to Marninwarntikura Women’s Resource Centre. Retrieved from https://mwrc.com.au/ McFarlane, K. (2010). From care to custody: Young women in out-of-home care in the criminal justice system. Current Issues in Criminal Justice, 22(2), 345–353. Miller, N. A., & Najavits, L. M. (2012). Creating trauma-informed correctional care: A balance of goals and environment. European Journal of Psychotraumatology, 3(1), 1–8. Moore, S., Soerjomataram, I., Green, A., Garvey, G., Martin, J., & Valery, P. (2016). Breast cancer diagnosis, patterns of care and burden of disease in Queensland, Australia (1998–2004): Does being Indigenous make a difference? International Journal of Public Health, 61(4), 435–442. Moreton-Robinson, A.  M. (2000). Talkin’ up to the white woman: Indigenous women and feminism. St Lucia, QLD, Australia: University of Queensland Press.

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Morseu-Diop, N. (2017). Healing in justice: Giving a voice to the silent and forgotten people. Torrens, ACT, Australia: Magpie Goose Publishing. Mu’id, O. (2004). ‘…Then I lost my spirit’: An analytic essay on transgenerational trauma theory as applied to oppressed people of color nations. Unpublished Master’s thesis. Stony Brook, NY: State University of New York. Retrieved from http://independent.academia.edu/OnajeMuid Mudgin-Gal Aboriginal Corporation. (circa 2011). Seeding hope. Retrieved from http://www.redfernfoundation.org.au/mudgingal.pdf Murrigunyah Family & Cultural Healing Centre. (2019). Spiritual healing. Retrieved from http://www.murrigunyah.org.au/spiritual-healing/ NAPCAN. (2014). Aboriginal girls circle – Enhancing connectedness and promoting resilience for Aboriginal girls: Final Pilot report. Sydney, Australia: University of Western Sydney. Retrieved from http://growinggreatschoolsworldwide. com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/AGC-FInal-Report-Feb-2014.pdf National Conference on Indigenous Incarceration. (2018, June 28–29). Resolution. Tweed Heads, New South Wales. Retrieved from https://socialfutures.org.au/national-conference-indigenous-incarceration/ National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families. (1997). Bringing them home: Report of the national inquiry into the separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families. Sydney, Australia: Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. Northern Territory Supreme Court. (2014). Fejo v Sims & Anor [2014] NTSC 9. Retrieved from https://jade.io/article/318348?asv=citation_browser Our Watch. (2018). Changing the picture: A national resource to support the prevention of violence against Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women and their children. Melbourne, Australia: Our Watch. Retrieved from https://www. ourwatch.org.au/getmedia/ab55d7a6-8c07-45ac-a80f-dbb9e593cbf6/ Changing-the-picture-AA-3.pdf.aspx Paradies, Y., Ben, J., Denson, N., Elias, A., Priest, N., Pieterse, A., et al. (2015). Racism as a determinant of health: A systematic review and meta-analysis. PLoS One, 10(9). Paradies, Y., Truong, M., & Priest, N. (2014). A systematic review of the extent and measurement of healthcare provider racism. Journal of General Internal Medicine, 29(2), 364–387. Purdy, J., & McGlade, H. (2001). ‘…No jury will convict’: An account of racial killings in Western Australia. Studies in Western Australian History, 22, 91–106.

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Ralph, N., Clark, Y., Gee, G., Brown, S., Mensah, F., Hirvonen, T., & Chamberlain, C. for the Healing the Past by Nurturing the Future Investigators Group and Co-Design Group. (2018). Healing the past by nurturing the future: Perinatal support for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander parents who have experienced complex childhood trauma – Workshop One report. Bundoora, Melbourne: Judith Lumley Centre, La Trobe University. Richardson, C., & Wade, A. (2010). Islands of safety: Restoring dignity in violence-­prevention work with Indigenous families. First Peoples Child & Family Review, 5(1), 137–145. Roach, V. (2008). Judge not  – Lest ye be judged. Alternative Law Journal, 33(1), 2–4. Roach, V. (2016, November 25). I was set up for abuse by my childhood. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/ 2 0 1 6 / n ov / 2 5 / v i c k i e - ro a c h - a b u s e - c h i l d h o o d - w o m e n - t a c k l i n g indigenous-domestic-violence Robertson, B., Demosthenous, H., & Demosthenous, C.  M. (2005). Stories from the Aboriginal women of the yarning circle: When cultures collide. Hecate, 31(2), 34–44. Royal Commission into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory. (2017a). Report of the Royal Commission and Board of Inquiry into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory (Vol. 1). Canberra, Australia: Commonwealth of Australia. Royal Commission into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory. (2017b). Interim report of the Royal Commission and Board of Inquiry into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory. Canberra, Australia: Commonwealth of Australia. Shepherd, S. M., & Anthony, T. (2018). Popping the cultural bubble of violence risk assessment tools. Journal of Forensic Psychiatry and Psychology, 29(2), 211–220. Sherwood, J. (2010). Do no harm: Decolonising Aboriginal health research. Unpublished PhD thesis. Sydney, Australia: University of New South Wales. Sherwood, J. (2013). Colonisation  – It’s bad for your health: The context of Aboriginal health. Contemporary Nurse, 46(1), 28–40. Sherwood, J. (2015). Intergenerational trauma isn’t just another determinant of Indigenous peoples’ health. (Open Volume). Journal of Ethics in Mental Health, 1–7. Retrieved from https://jemh.ca/issues/v9/documents/JEMH_ Open-Volume_Article_Theme_Colonization_Intergenerational_Trauma_ June2015.pdf

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Sherwood, J., & Kendall, S. (2013). Reframing space by building relationships: Community collaborative participatory action research with Aboriginal mothers in prison. Contemporary Nurse, 46(1), 83–94. Sherwood, J., Lighton, S., Dundas, K., French, T., Link-Gordon, D., Smith, K., et al. (2015). Who are the experts here? Recognition of Aboriginal women and community workers in research and beyond. AlterNative, 11(2), 177–190. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and Indigenous peoples. London: Zed Books. The Redfern Foundation. (2019). About Mudgin-gal. Retrieved from http:// www.redfernfoundation.org.au/mudgingal.html Tranter, K. (2003). Mad Max: The car and Australian governance. National Identities, 5(1), 67–81. Victorian Supreme Court. (2014). DPP v Kerr [2014] VSC 374. Retrieved from https://jade.io/ar ticle/342801?at.hl=DPP+v+Kerr+%255B201 4%255D+VSC+374 Wahlquist, C. (2016, November 23). Dixie Link-Gordon: ‘Violence is woven into Australia’. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/ australia-news/2016/nov/23/dixie-link-gordon-violence-is-woveninto-the-fabric-of-australia Wahlquist, C., Evershed, N., & Allam, L. (2018, September 10). Half of Indigenous women who died in custody did not receive appropriate medical care. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/ australia-news/2018/sep/10/indigenous-women-in-custody-morelikely-than-men-to-have-died-where-policy-not-followed Waminda South Coast Women’s Health and Welfare Aboriginal Corporation. (2019a). Balaang Healing at Balaang Gunyah – ‘women’s place/home’. Retrieved from http://www.waminda.org.au/balaang-healing-services Waminda South Coast Women’s Health and Welfare Aboriginal Corporation. (2019b). Our goals and objectives. Retrieved from http://www.waminda.org. au/our-vision Watson, I. (2008). The ‘recognition’ of cultural background in Indigenous sentencing. Paper presented to the Sentencing Conference National Judicial College of Australia, ANU College of Law, Canberra. Watson, N. (2011). The Northern Territory emergency response – Has it really improved the lives of Aboriginal women and children? Australian Feminist Law Journal, 35(1), 147–163. Watson, N. (2014). From the Northern Territory emergency response to stronger futures: Where is the evidence that Australian Aboriginal women

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7 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Women in Australian Prisons Hilde Tubex and Dorinda Cox

Introduction The increasing imprisonment rate of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women1 is a serious matter of concern, as imprisonment not only impacts women’s lives but also affects the lives of the children and family they care for, and the communities they come from. Therefore, Aboriginal female imprisonment is not a matter of numbers, it is a matter of impact.

 Throughout this chapter we will refer to ‘Aboriginal peoples’ and ‘Indigenous peoples’. In doing so, we acknowledge the distinct cultures and societies of different Aboriginal peoples and Torres Strait Islanders. The term ‘peoples’ is also used to recognise the collective dimension of the livelihoods of Indigenous people, with distinct cultural beliefs that differentiate them as a group from other Australians. 1

H. Tubex (*) University of Western Australia Law School, Crawley, WA, Australia e-mail: [email protected] D. Cox Inspire Change Consulting Group, Perth, WA, Australia © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_7

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Aboriginal women have specific social and cultural obligations, which cannot be replaced by others, resulting in gaps in the social structures of affected communities, causing intergenerational trauma, which can lead to further and ongoing contact with the criminal legal system.2 Understanding the increase of Aboriginal women in prison is challenging due to a lack of publicly available national data addressing the intersection between gender and Indigenous status. In this contribution we will provide an overview of the fragmented datasets available about Aboriginal women’s imprisonment. Even though these datasets are fragmented, they do give us an indication about the reasons why so many Aboriginal women find themselves in prison and are returning to prison. Of particular concern is the increase of the numbers of Aboriginal women who are sentenced for ‘acts intended to cause injury’—indicating a growing involvement of these women in violent behaviour. However, to understand Aboriginal women’s use of violence, we have to look at this behaviour in the broader context of the ongoing effect of settler-colonisation and its links to family violence and intergenerational trauma. We will argue that we have to shift focus from women as ‘offenders’ to an understanding of the broader context in which this behaviour takes place, which will enable us to develop grass-roots support networks addressing this concerning trend.

Quantitative Data on Indigenous Women Indigenous Women in the Prison Indigenous women are the fastest growing subgroup within the Australian prison population. While Indigenous women only account for about 2% of the adult female Australian population, they represent 34% of the

 The use of the term criminal legal system is used in replacement of criminal justice system as it does not deliver just outcomes for Indigenous peoples. The current representation of the legal system is the court, police and corrections—in most jurisdictions not engaging community and failing to recognise traditional law systems. 2

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female prison population, and are 21 times more likely than non-­ Indigenous women to find themselves in prison3 (ABS, 2018). Looking into this phenomenon, we are hampered by a lack of national intersectional data.4 Since 2008, the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) provides in Prisoners in Australia (series 4517) the imprisonment rate5 (IR) per gender/ethnicity for Australia. It is only in the last release (2018) that these datasets are also provided per State/Territory.6 However, the ABS has had these datasets available since 1987, which we obtained through a customised report. Based on the long term-data, it is alarming to see that the increase in the Indigenous female IR accelerates after 2000 and has been growing exponentially in the last couple of years. Since 2000, the Indigenous female IR has increased by 142%. The growth in IR is 65% for Indigenous males, 68% for non-Indigenous females and 30% for non-Indigenous males (ABS, 2016, 2018).

Indigenous Women’s Offences Despite the concerning rise in the number of Indigenous women in prison, we know very little about the pattern of Indigenous women’s offences. The ABS datasets provide intersectional data of people charged by police by sex and Indigenous status for only five jurisdictions within Australia (series 4519). From these datasets, we know that the rate of Indigenous women charged with an offence is higher than for non-­ Indigenous women and lower than for Indigenous men. However, the rate of Indigenous women charged with offences remains stable over the period these data are available (2011–2018). This means, there is no evidence that increased Indigenous female offending is driving the growth of this subgroup in the prison population.

 On the 30th of June 2018, the Indigenous female IR is 510.3, while the non-Indigenous female IR is 24.8/100,000 adults. 4  For earlier overviews, see Bartels (2010), Stubbs (2011) and MacGillivray and Baldry (2015). 5  Number of prisoners out of 100,000 adults. 6  An alternative source is the ABS Corrective Services data—series 4512, which gives the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander female IR and total female IR. 3

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The ABS datasets also provide intersectional data about the most serious offence or charge people are in prison for (see Prisoners in Australia, series 4517).7 From these datasets, we notice that there is a dramatic rise in the number of (Indigenous) women imprisoned for violent offences. In 2007, 183 Indigenous women were in prison for ‘acts intended to cause injury’; in 2018 their number was 401, an increase of 119%. We see the same growth for non-Indigenous women (+129%), but their numbers are lower (increase from 133 to 305). This increase is less significant for men, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous. Proportionally, one third of Indigenous women are in prison for ‘acts intended to cause injury’ (33%), this almost equals the proportion of Indigenous men in prison for this offence (35%) and is a lot higher than for non-Indigenous men (18%) and non-Indigenous women (13%). The next most frequent offences for which Indigenous women are imprisoned are ‘unlawful entry with intent’ (16%), followed by ‘offences against justice procedures’ (8%). Overall, while the pattern of Indigenous female offending remains stable over time, there is a considerable growth in the number of Indigenous women in prison for offences of violence.

Indigenous Women’s Prison Terms Intersectional datasets on the mean and median sentence length of Indigenous women in prison are available in some early online ABS releases of Prisoners in Australia, but no longer after 2008. From the data available, we know that Indigenous women generally serve shorter sentences than their non-Indigenous counterparts. Both the mean and median sentence length of non-Indigenous women are almost double that of Indigenous women. This, according to Bartels (2010), suggests that Indigenous women are being imprisoned for more trivial offences. As no recent data are publicly available, we purchased a customised report from the ABS, which shows that at 30th of June 2018, the difference

 However, prison census data record only the most serious crime for which the person is convicted, leaving other offences not recorded, as demonstrated in MacGillivray and Baldry (2015). 7

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between Indigenous and non-Indigenous mean and median sentence length is still exactly the same as it was in 20088 (ABS, 2019). Indigenous women are the fastest growing group within the remand population. The latest dataset of Prisoners in Australia provides intersectional data on the legal status of prisoners, revealing that 41% of the Indigenous women in prison are unsentenced, while this is 36% for non-­ Indigenous women.

Indigenous Women Returning to Prison Evidence shows that the IR of Indigenous women is strongly related to their high rate of recidivism. On the 30th of June 2018, 64% of all sentenced Indigenous women had been imprisoned previously, compared with 39% of the non-Indigenous women (ABS, 2018). This percentage also remains stable over time (since 2001). Of concern is the fact that, while doing research for this contribution, claims about Indigenous women being the fastest growing group of prisoners and the need for intersectional data to understand the underlying causes for this trend, go back to writings in the early 2000s, and there has not been much change to the situation since.

Qualitative Research on Indigenous Women There is a limited amount of qualitative studies involving the views of Indigenous women in prison and after release. The overview below is not exhaustive but summarises some key empirical research projects with a focus on (Indigenous) women. Lawrie’s (2003) research project from the Aboriginal Justice Advisory Council involved interviews with 50 Aboriginal women in three prisons in New South Wales, followed by narrative interviews with a small sample of women that participated in the first stage. The women reported that they committed offences as a source of income, due to lack of (access  Non-Indigenous women: mean years: 4.1, median years: 2.5 versus Indigenous women: mean years: 2.3 and median years: 1.5. 8

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to) other financial support. They spoke about their struggles to accommodate and bring up the children they were responsible for and the impact of their imprisonment on their communities and the roles they are supposed to fulfil. Once they become involved in the criminal legal system, it is difficult to ‘break the cycle’ due to many issues, such as alcohol and drugs as underlying factors for the imprisonment and problems finding housing to have a fresh start or to regain the care over their children. Many of the women were victims of domestic violence and other abuse before they committed offences and reported a lack of support in dealing with this trauma. Lawrie (2003) states that “One of the most significant findings of the Study is the link between child sexual assault, drug addiction and the patterns of offending behaviour that led the women into being imprisoned” (p. 6). Goulding’s (2004) research on the impact of imprisonment on women’s familial and social connectedness involved 52 interviews with women in Western Australia who were either in prison or recently released (25 of them being Aboriginal), as well as 33 family members of the women (24 were Aboriginal family members). She concludes that women prisoners are not a homogeneous group and describes six distinct socio-economic and cultural groupings. She makes a distinction between urban Aboriginal women and those from regional towns and remote communities, leading to different needs and policy directions. For the urban Aboriginal women, acknowledgement of the value, diversity and richness of their culture should be a priority in programmes and service delivery. These programmes need to be delivered by Aboriginal peoples that are familiar with the traditions and general lifestyle of urban Aboriginal women. They share with other groups the need for long term intensive support, including culturally sensitive mental health services. For the regional and remote Aboriginal women, before any rehabilitative interventions can be successful, the underlying lack of basic living conditions, poverty and destitution must be addressed. As long distances make service delivery particularly difficult for Aboriginal women in remote communities, full collaboration between (government) agencies and local communities is required. Goulding also points to the importance of local traditional law in remote communities.

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The then Department of Corrective Services (DCS)9 in Western Australia conducted several surveys on ‘The Profile of Women in Prison’. The latest survey was taken in 200810 (DCS, 2009). In addition to the quantitative survey as in the earlier projects, this research involved qualitative interviews from a representative sample11 of 64 women, 32 of whom were Indigenous women. The research reached the conclusion that there are different pathways leading to women’s imprisonment, and therefore different needs deriving from these past experiences. To assist in the development of better service delivery, six types of profiles are described. While Aboriginality was not a distinct criterion in developing the typology, after the analysis of the interviews, one of the groups consisted of only Aboriginal women (23), mainly from regional settings, while Aboriginal women were less present in the other groups. The dominant characteristic of this group is their community-oriented lifestyle, with both positive and negative consequences. There is the social support on one side, but also the struggle with an intergenerational cluster of alcohol, sexual and physical abuse and violence. These are coupled with other disadvantages such as homelessness, low education, poor employment histories and extensive prior contact with the criminal legal system. Indigenous women therefore need a broad range of culturally appropriate support services to deal with their trauma and emotions and to enhance their independency and self-esteem. In a study on Aboriginal women with dependent children leaving prison, Baldry (2009) conducted focus groups with 17 Aboriginal women incarcerated in two prisons on the outskirts of Sydney, New South Wales, as well as their service providers. This study reports on the impact of women’s imprisonment for the children and the fear of them becoming a ward of the state, as well as the lack of longer-term accommodation with the result that women return to unsafe environments. Families and broader networks could be a risk—pushing women back into the same patterns, while trying to stay away from them resulting in isolation and  On 1 July 2017, Machinery of Government changes resulted in the Department of Corrective Services and the Department of the Attorney General merging to form the Department of Justice. 10  One of the authors (Tubex) was involved in this research while she was working at the then Department of Corrective Services in Western Australia. 11  Based on ethnicity, age, security level, prison location and sentences status. 9

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loneliness. Extended families could, however, be a strong source of support if they are available. Further, the lack of access to their culture, kinship and heritage had an ongoing impact, and to deal with this, they need the support of someone they can trust. Finally, Baldry (2009, 2013) makes a link between trauma as a result of abuse and domestic violence and women’s offences. McCausland and Baldry (2017) state that “The Indigenous women … identified that their offending behaviour was often a response to pain and anger arising from personal, generational and cultural trauma, and they felt that they had not been afforded safe spaces or places in which to begin to address the impacts of this trauma” (p. 27). Given the data available, it is particularly the increase in the numbers of Indigenous women being sentenced for ‘acts intended to cause injury’ that is the matter of our concern. The qualitative evidence above demonstrates that Indigenous women have different backgrounds and trajectories that lead them into contact with the criminal legal system and therefore distinctive needs to be addressed. Consequently, the rest of this contribution will focus on understanding Indigenous women’s use of violence, the impact of colonisation and the links between Indigenous women’s contact with the criminal legal system and family violence/ intergenerational trauma. We then turn to the services for Indigenous women when in prison and after release.

 nderstanding Indigenous Women’s Use U of Violence Indigenous Women and Colonisation Based on writings and research in this area, it is clear the ‘mass incarceration’ of Indigenous peoples cannot be understood through the lens of internationally developed models explaining increasing prison populations. These frameworks have been criticised for their Eurocentric bias and lack of consideration of the role of colonialism (Baldry & Cunneen, 2014; Blagg, 2016; Kelly & Tubex, 2015; McGrath, 1995; Tubex, 2017; Tubex, Brown, Freiberg, Gelb, & Sarre, 2015). Blagg (2016) disputes the

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relevance of Garland’s thesis of ‘cultures of control’ for Australia, as it “is premised on the belief that there was a rupture, or break, with liberal welfare policies of the post-war era replaced by a new focus on retribution and incapacitation” (p. 20), while, in Australia, Aboriginal peoples were never included in the benefits of the welfare state in the first place. On the contrary, it was particularly during the ‘welfare era’ that the surveillance of Aboriginal lives, particularly for women, became very intrusive (McGrath, 1995). Further, these theories are inadequate because they ignore the intersectionality of race and gender, which is crucial in understanding the presence of Indigenous women in the criminal legal system. As stated by Walters and Longhurst (2017), “It is clear that the intersectional and intergenerational experiences of Aboriginal women are underlying factors behind the causes of Aboriginal women’s incarceration, which are often very different to the causes of imprisonment of Aboriginal men” (p. 17). Baldry and Cunneen (2014) demonstrate from their perspective of colonial patriarchy how the increasing IR of Indigenous women is related to an ongoing chain of structural and institutional systems of separate punishment practices for Indigenous peoples as a fundamental characteristic of the colonial state. They describe how discriminatory practices from the early onset of colonisation into the twenty-first century have resulted in a view of Aboriginal women as a criminal class. However, it is particularly the increasing surveillance of Aboriginal women by welfare institutions since the 1960s and penal expansionism since the 1980s, including the rise of ‘risk thinking’ and positivist programmatic interventions, which caused the rapid increase of Indigenous women in the prison over the last decades.

Indigenous Women and Family Violence A majority of Indigenous women in prison (between 70 and 90%) are survivors of physical and sexual violence (Walters & Longhurst, 2017). Histories of violence contribute to women’s contact with the criminal legal system in a direct (as a response to experienced violence) and in an indirect way, (as abuse was the underlying cause of drug use and other

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habits, which led to women being charged with offences) (Bartels, 2010, 2012; Walters & Longhurst, 2017). The Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Women’s Task Force on Violence Report (further ‘Task Force Report’) (2000) is based on a review of the literature, wide consultation with Indigenous communities throughout Queensland and 43 written submissions. The use of violence by women is described as a response to violent victimisation, an act of retaliation, related to jealousy, being forced into participating in unlawful behaviour by an abusive partner and increased stress in relationships due to the effects of colonisation (ATSIWTFV, 2000). Violence in Indigenous communities is a complex problem with its own particular characteristics. Nancarrow’s (2016) work is based on an analysis of administrative police and court data, as well as interviews with service providers (12) and police prosecutors (3), and shows that Indigenous violence cannot be effectively addressed by starting from the dominant conception of the white perpetrator trying to control the life of his partner through coercive controlling behaviour. The violence Indigenous women experience is characterised by fights which are related to other aspects of Indigenous lifestyles, particularly in remote communities. Therefore, in an Indigenous context, there is a preference for the use of the term family violence instead of domestic violence. Consequently, Indigenous women’s violence needs to be seen in a broader context of chaos and associated with Indigenous trauma and the effects of ongoing colonisation, cultural dispossession and discrimination, multiple deprivations, substance abuse, family feuds and jealousy. Because of this different context, intervention models need to be different as well. Based on their research, Blagg, Williams, Cummings, Torres, and Woodley (2018) conclude that it is essential that models addressing violence against Indigenous women are community-led and country-based, involve men, have an intersectional perspective, focus on broader issues of social and emotional wellbeing, and have Elders at the centre of each stage of intervention. Wilson et al. (2017) interviewed 54 incarcerated Indigenous mothers in Western Australia. According to them, the use of violence was often related to the experience of multiple traumas, witnessing violence in close and extended families while growing up and substance use. Reasons for

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the use of violence are the women’s experiences of violence as a means of resolving grievances, frustration over violent behaviour from their partner, the need to protect themselves to the point of fear for their lives and disappointment with the interactions with government agencies, leading them to take matters into their own hands and fight back. These experiences and the inadequacy of governmental treatment programmes lead them to fear re-offending after release (Wilson et al., 2017).

Indigenous Women and Intergenerational Trauma Colonisation caused ongoing issues of trauma, which is in turn related to the commission of criminal offences. The literature review of Jones et al. (2019) describes how the removal of Aboriginal children from the start of colonisation, impacted on the mental health, wellbeing and parenting skills of those affected, which might form an indirect link to contact with the criminal legal system. But there is also quantitative evidence that being involved in the ‘stolen generations’—either directly or indirectly through other family members—is correlated with higher arrest rates (Dodson & Hunter, 2006; Ferrante, 2013). Indigenous women’s imprisonment creates a further intergenerational trauma as about 80% of these women are primary caregivers (Walters & Longhurst, 2017). As stated in the literature review by Jones et al. (2019), in traditional Aboriginal communities, all Aboriginal women are mothers, due to the kinship structure and responsibilities they have for the children of their relatives and extended families. Therefore, Aboriginal women’s imprisonment is most concerning, as “[c]hildren whose mothers spend time in prison are more likely to have disrupted education, poor health and unstable housing” (Walters & Longhurst, 2017, p. 13). A data linkage study in Western Australia revealed that 36.5 per 1000 Indigenous children born between 2001 and 2011 had mothers imprisoned after birth to age two years. Additionally, 17.4 per 1000 Indigenous children had mothers imprisoned during pregnancy. Thirty-one per cent of Indigenous children with a history of maternal incarceration in pregnancy to age two years entered out of home care. Even more concerning, infant mortality for children whose mothers were imprisoned up to five

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years before birth or within their first year after birth was higher than for children of mothers with no record of imprisonment (Dowell, Mejia, Preen, & Segal, 2018). The number of Indigenous children living in out of home care has almost doubled over the last decade and was described by the Aboriginal Children’s Commissioner as ‘a national disaster’ (ABC, 2018). Moreover, fear of the potential removal of their children is often a reason why Indigenous women do not seek help in situations of family violence, which in turn can lead to their own use of violence (Mitra-Kahn, Newbigin, & Hardefeldt, 2016; Willis, 2011; Wilson et al., 2017).

Cycles of Violence The Task Force Report (ATSIWTFV, 2000) describes how, by lack of support, some victims turn into perpetrators. The anger and rage caused by traumatisation can be manifested in violence if there are insufficient boundaries and safety factors in place in the community, or if the responses from the criminal legal system fail to acknowledge the trauma, particularly if it is related to events that happened years ago. As long as the victim has not been taught strategies to deal with the trauma, the anger remains and might result in violence. Unaddressed victimisation might result in engaging in relationships with power imbalances and difficulties in attending to their children’s needs, and this leads to the risk of creating cycles of violence (ATSIWTFV, 2000). These cycles persist due to a lack of post-release support, leaving the women in ‘chaotic uncertainty’ at the outside, with return to prison as a result (McCausland & Baldry, 2017). Based on the evidence above, it is our argument that, to address Indigenous women’s use of violence and its intersection with the criminal legal system, there is the need to step away from the focus of the ‘offending behaviour’ and to look at the broader context in which this behaviour took place. This would enable us to develop culturally appropriate, locally engrained support and services.

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Services for Indigenous Women Services for Indigenous Women in the Prison There is a lack of culturally valid programmes for Indigenous prisoners in general, and even more so for Indigenous women. Literature has pointed out that Indigenous women have been subject to a lack of intersectional research, which hampers the awareness of the specific needs of Indigenous women in the criminal legal system, and therefore the provision of suitable services (Bartels, 2012). This lack of knowledge carries the risk of ‘intersectional discrimination’ and even further victimisation, as it results in Indigenous women having to rely on either services for women in general or a derivate of services for Indigenous men (ATSISJC, 2002). It was demonstrated that Indigenous prisoners have limited access to culturally appropriate rehabilitation programmes, and this is particularly the case if they serve short sentences. Of even more concern is the fact that the study could not rely on primary sources because of a lack of data on the availability of treatment programmes for Indigenous prisoners, as well as evaluations on the effectiveness of these programmes and a lack of support from the Corrective Services Administrators’ Council for the researchers to approach prison authorities in each jurisdiction to obtain this information (Jones & Guthrie, 2016).

The Need for Trauma-Based Healing Approaches The importance of culturally based healing for Indigenous women in and post release from prison has been well documented in other Indigenous nations, for example New Zealand and Canada. Culturally based models address individual trauma relating to the women’s offending, but also provide the tools to heal physically, emotionally and spiritually, with reference to their collective context (ATSISJC, 2004). Connecting culturally based approaches for healing must not be done in isolation however but must work on the restoration of dignity and respect for the important roles and responsibilities Indigenous women have. These healing

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approaches must ultimately work to prevent the transmission of trauma to future generations. Given the complexity of the causes leading to Indigenous women’s use of violence and contact with the criminal legal system, interventions cannot be limited to women in prison, but need to involve partners, extended families and the broader community, which brings us to the concept of ‘throughcare’.

Throughcare Needs for Indigenous Women Throughcare has been defined as “comprehensive case management for a prisoner in the lead up to their release from prison and throughout their transition to life outside” (COAG, 2016, p. 62). Baldry (2013) describes how general throughcare practices aiming for rehabilitation and reducing recidivism have proven not particularly effective for Indigenous women exiting prison. There are several reasons for this: they are individualistic, failing to address structural factors that led to criminalisation, founded on studies of mainly male prisoners and Anglo-American dominated, ignoring the fact that Aboriginal women, are “cycl[ing] in and out of prison more rapidly and more often than their non-Indigenous peers” (p. 228), assuming programmes are available and suitable while they are not, ignoring the high amount of Indigenous women on remand and assuming an orderly process throughout the criminal legal system, which is often not the case for Indigenous women. The awareness of all aspects discussed above formed the basis for our own research, aiming at building effective throughcare strategies for Indigenous prisoners in Western Australia and the Northern Territory (Tubex, Rynne & Blagg, 2020).12 Therefore, the starting point of the research was that, for the transition from custody to community to be effective, throughcare strategies should be based on the knowledge and expertise of local Indigenous peoples and services. Consequently, the research design used a community-led approach, seeking the perspectives of male and female ex-prisoners, their community members and local  Tubex Hilde, Rynne John & Blagg Harry, Grant: CRG 23/15-16.

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service providers. While all three r­esearchers were non-Indigenous, we selected research sites we are familiar with and where we have strong community connections. The researchers contacted services, Elders and other respected peoples in several communities near Broome, Derby, Fitzroy Crossing and at the Dampier Peninsula in Western Australia and near Darwin, Alice Springs and on Melville Island, one of the Tiwi Islands in the Northern Territory. They, in turn, recommended other people as possible participants. Potential participants were informed about the aims of the research, the use of the results and the nature of their involvement. Their consent was witnessed and/or recorded. The recordings were professionally transcribed and the analysis of the interviews was conducted via a grounded theoretical approach of open, axial and reflective coding with NVivo. Out of the 59 people we interviewed, 20 were (Aboriginal) women in communities and service providers. After the analysis of the interviews, a consultation paper was developed, summarising our understanding of what we were told in the interviews. This consultation paper was sent by email to all the participants with available contact details. Participants had the opportunity to give feedback over email, were contacted to discuss the findings in a follow-­up visit or over Skype and their comments were integrated in the results. In the report we provided numerous quotes to give the Indigenous peoples a voice; we have selected some of the main themes below. The interviews demonstrated a clear lack of programmes and activities for Indigenous women in prison and after release: And there’s nothing for the women. The whole time I was there [prison name], there was no treatment programs for the women, the whole time I was there. I haven’t seen that in there for a while—that they do various things—they try to keep women occupied because they get quite bored. Stuff to do, so we just do—hairdresser—so we’ve just got to go in there for two days cut their hair—show them how to cut their hair and blah, blah, blah. Just the beauticians courses, nails—technicians, but as far as clinical programs go I don’t know of any. (Service Provider WA)

This kind of activities can hardly be seen as addressing the many challenges these women have to deal with and participants expressed a need

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for basic and life skill training. Further, the concentration of Indigenous women from different skin groups in the few female prisons around caused issues of jealousy and conflict. Services for Indigenous women in the community are often related to short term accommodation and domestic violence, but there is a much broader need to support the women in dealing with problems related to trauma, grief and multiple areas of deprivation. This support is needed, particularly because the women are reluctant to bring out their problems: Woman business. Well, it’s very hard one to get women with their problems, and when they have domestic problems, they don’t let anybody know, they don’t go to anyone. Don’t know why because we’re all women, we have problems, but … They’re scared to tell anybody about their problems. (Elder NT)

One participant expressed the need for a woman’s centre in the communities, another referred to a ‘strong women’ programme that had ceased. The interviewees stressed the fact that these services need to be run in the communities and with local people: I would like to share that I would like to see something on the ground with the people who are coming back from the jail and like with domestic—the community—something happening for them, but they need a program going from the ground. (Elder NT) Because there’s no options where our women—there is nothing in the community to support those women. So, we—our point is where you need funding to be able to work with these women. (Service Provider NT)

The lack of continuity of local community initiatives due to funding issues was a recurrent problem throughout the interviews, in general, but even more so for Indigenous women. Another problem was the lack of capacity to provide enough support to deliver programmes to the women in the community. In particular if the women have been in prison for offences involving violence, there are very few opportunities:

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Just in terms of women and recidivism, I think one of the issues, too, is not having good diversion options for women who may have used violence. We’ve had women that have gone back into prison who may have used violence or something like that, but it’s actually not a diversion. So we get rung up all the time and say, “So, what do you do for women?” And we have to say unfortunately we can’t do very much at all because we’d like to see that these women actually stay in the community and work with an organisation like ours or a program like ours rather than end up in prison. (Service Provider NT) To run a program for women who may have used violence. And we know the reasons why women are often using violence. It’s a whole range of different issues that we feel equipped to be able to talk with them about. So, actually having options for women, and apparently Alice Springs women’s—it is out of control. The women are back to back. (Service Provider NT)

It was also confirmed that the presence of women in the criminal legal system has a significant impact on their broader community and the bond with their children, also after release: There’s an impact on the community. There’re so many ramifications for having—I think the same about men, but there’s so many ramifications for having women. (Service Provider NT) Yes. And then what happens with those children? And the mum comes out, and the bond between the mother and child is broken down, and grandma has been looking out for the kids, and aunties, and then his family starts to have—so, there’s so many—I think that’s something that we really need to—if you can investigate that more. (Service Provider NT)

But there is also the effect of criminalisation on community members who are not caught up in the criminal legal system. Indigenous women service providers talked about the challenges they are facing on a daily basis: Female Speaker 2: Yeah, exactly. It is quite frustrating, like all of us, from extended family and immediate family, it quite— Female Speaker 3: Peer-pressure.

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Female speaker 2: Yeah. Or we come to work—I try and shut off what’s going on out there because when I come to work, they will snap when I get out the front door and the gate, and as soon as I see family, “Oh, Grandma my God.” It’s really depressing. I’m surprised none of us are going to counselling ourselves because it’s just an ongoing, continuously 24 hours, around the clock. I don’t know how I honestly sometimes wonder how any of us do it, deal with it. Having the job for us we’re lucky. We’re actually doing, I suppose, good for ourselves plus our family. We try and set an example. You can only help so much to some because a lot of them don’t want to take the help. Female Speaker 1: You got to be strong and you got to want to survive it all. It’s an everyday fight and it’s like a full-time job. (Focus Group Service Providers NT) During this research, we met with many strong women in charge of their communities or working as service providers. They are often the strongholds for many dependent children and family members in their struggles with the criminal legal system, and, regardless of some really valuable initiatives we came across, they are left with high responsibilities and little support. Therefore, we concluded that if throughcare is to be effective, Indigenous peoples should be empowered to drive prison reforms in preparing individuals for release and community re-entry. Given the importance of community, an individualistic approach is not appropriate, and strategies should involve families and other community members. Important is that services are delivered by and in collaboration with Indigenous peoples and their communities. This kind of throughcare trajectories are essential to break the cycle of offending and re-offending.

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Conclusion In the overview above, we demonstrated that there is a lack of intersectional quantitative data enabling us to understand the trajectories of Indigenous women leading them into and through the criminal legal system. There is a limited amount of empirical research involving the direct perspectives of Indigenous women on their trajectories and how past trauma and experiences impact on their lives while in prison and after release. Even so, the available research emphasises the complex needs of these women and the lack of support to address these. Research access to prisoners has become more difficult over time (see Tubex, 2015). The objection from Government departments is often that prisoners are ‘a captive audience’ and that (Indigenous) women are a particularly vulnerable group that needs to be protected against ‘over-researching’. The question is if we indeed know enough about Indigenous women and imprisonment. It is our view that, to develop a framework to understand the pathways of Indigenous women throughout the criminal legal system, accurate and nationally comparable quantitative data are needed and further qualitative research is required to provide a broader overview of the complexity of the interaction between the women’s lives and offending.

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au/sites/default/files/content/social_justice/sj_report/sjreport02/Social_ Justice_Report02.pdf Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner (ATSISJC). (2004). Social Justice report. Retrieved from https://www.humanrights.gov. au/sites/default/files/content/social_justice/sj_report/sjreport04/social_justice_report_2004.pdf Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS). (2016). Customised report, imprisonment rate, state/territory, Indigenous status and sex, 1982–2015. ACT, Australia: ABS. Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS). (2018). Prisoners in Australia, Series 4517. ACT, Australia: ABS. Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS). (2019). Customised report, sentenced prisoners, mean and median aggregate sentence length by Indigenous status, state and sex, 30 June 2018. ACT, Australia: ABS. Baldry, E. (2009). Home safely: Aboriginal women post-prison and their children. Indigenous Law Bulletin, 7(15), 14–17. Baldry, E. (2013). Continuing systemic discrimination. In B.  Carlton & M. Segrave (Eds.), Women exiting prison: Critical essays on gender, post-release support and survival (pp. 224–259). London: Routledge. Baldry, E., & Cunneen, C. (2014). Imprisoned Indigenous women and the shadow of colonial patriarchy. Australian & New Zealand Journal of Criminology, 47(2), 276–298. Bartels, L. (2010). Indigenous women’s offending patterns: A literature review (Research and Public Policy Series 107). Canberra, Australia: Australian Institute of Criminology. Bartels, L. (2012). Painting the picture of Indigenous women in custody in Australia. QUT Law & Justice Journal, 12(2), 1–17. Blagg, H. (2016). Crime, Aboriginality and the Decolonisation of Justice (2nd ed.). Annandale, Australia: The Federation Press. Blagg, H., Williams, E., Cummings, E., Torres, M., & Woodley, K. N. (2018). Innovative models in addressing violence against Indigenous women: Final report. NSW, Australia: ANROWS. Council of Australian Governments (COAG). (2016). Prison to work report. Canberra, Australia: COAG. Department of Corrective Services. (2009). Profile of women in prison 2008. Final report. Retrieved from https://web.archive.org/web/20110330214404/ http://www.correctiveservices.wa.gov.au/_files/about-us/statistics-publications/students-researchers/profile-women-prison-2008-final.pdf

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Nancarrow, H. R. (2016). Legal responses to Intimate Partner Violence: Gendered aspirations and racialised realities. Unpublished doctoral thesis. Queensland, Australia: School of Criminology and Criminal Justice, Griffith University. Stubbs, J. (2011). Indigenous women in Australian criminal justice: Over-­ represented but rarely acknowledged. Australian Indigenous Law Review, 15(1), 47–63. Tubex, H. (2015). Reach and relevance of prison research. International Journal for Crime, Justice and Social Democracy, 4(1), 4–17. Retrieved from https:// www.crimejusticejournal.com/article/view/200 Tubex, H. (2017). Political economy and punishment in Australia. In D. Melossi, M. Sozzo, & J. A. Brandariz-García (Eds.), The political economy of punishment today: Visions, debates and challenges (pp. 137–159). London: Routledge. Tubex, H., Brown, D., Freiberg, A., Gelb, K., & Sarre, R. (2015). Penal diversity within Australia. Punishment & Society, 17(3), 345–373. Tubex, H., Rynne, J., & Blagg, H. (2020). Building effective throughcare strategies for Indigenous offenders in Western Australia and the Northern Territory. Criminology Research Council Report, Australian Institute of Criminology, Canberra, Australia. Walters, A., & Longhurst, S. (2017). Over-represented and overlooked: The crisis of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women’s growing over-imprisonment. Melbourne, Australia: Human Rights Law Centre. Willis, M. (2011). Non-disclosure of violence in Australian Indigenous communities. In Trends & issues in crime and criminal justice 405. Canberra, Australia: Australian Institute of Criminology. Wilson, M., Jones, J., Butler, T., Simpson, P., Gilles, M., Baldry, E., Levy, M., & Sullivan, E. (2017). Violence in the lives of incarcerated Aboriginal mothers in Western Australia. Sage Open, 1–16. Retrieved from https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/2158244016686814

8 Mana Wahine Leadership After Prison Helena Rattray-Te Mana and Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi

Introduction This chapter features a narrative interview that has been transformed into a biographical story, which demonstrates a way of overcoming ostracisation and stigmatisation, as a consequence of marginalisation. A published book (Desmond, 2009) that also featured the research participant was used to add an additional layer of comprehension to the story, while other literature was woven into the story to support the narrative. As noted by the Aroha Trust: We are the girls from Miramar Handed down by the Pākehā (New Zealand European)

H. Rattray-Te Mana (*) Te Atawhai o Te Ao: Independent Māori Institute for Environment & Health, Whanganui, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] T. A. N. Te Rangi Aroha Trust, Auckland, New Zealand © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_8

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Picked us up for I and D [Impaired Driving] For being a fuckin’ menace to society Super, super, set us free Send us back to our families We promised to you that we’ll be good Like the little Māori girls of New Zealand should. (Cited in Desmond, 2009, p. 100)

Charmaine (cited in Desmond, 2009) said that “I look at those lyrics today and once again they had perpetuated the belief system that said I was a bad little Māori girl” (p.  100). The women of the Aroha Trust expressed their powerlessness in the poem they composed, to the tune of Island in the sun by Harry Belafonte (Desmond, 2009). Aroha Trust was established in the 1970s and was a work cooperative for women in gangs. The birth of the cooperative reflected a powerful need to keep the women in gangs safe, demonstrated by the exponentially high rates of the number of Māori women being sent to prison. Concerning statistics show that the incarceration of Māori women has sharply increased in recent years and are now 60% of the female incarcerated population (Department of Corrections, 2014). According to McIntosh (2007), Māori women who have been released from prison face the challenge of overcoming further oppression, marginalisation and stigmatisation. This chapter will deconstruct a common belief that you cannot have mana (prestige) if you have been to prison. There are three ways this chapter is approached: 1. by sharing the story of Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi who spent seven months in prison; 2. by discussing mana wāhine (Māori women’s rights); and 3. by arguing how the most excluded women in New Zealand society can become inspirational leaders, and that despite challenges, Māori tāne (men) have the same opportunity too.

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The Significance of Mana Despite discrimination and stigma that Māori wāhine (women) who were former prisoners have encountered, they should have the same opportunities to be inspirational mana wāhine leaders. Traditionally, there are many different domains of mana (prestige and authority), for example mana atua (gods), mana whenua (land), mana moana (seas and lakes), mana motuhake (independence) and mana tangata (people). A definition of mana is prestige, authority, control, power, influence, status and honour (Moorfield, 2011). Mana can be found in both tangible and intangible objects, people, places, land, water and events. Mana is an important cultural attribute to Māori people, described as “the enduring indestructible power of the gods. It is the sacred fire that is without beginning and without end” (Barlow, 1991). Mana can be inherited through chiefly blood lines, mana can be earned by great deeds and actions and there is also mana of a group (Barlow, 1991; Henare, 2001). Group mana or mana of the collective can be accumulated over generations by whānau (family), a hapū (sub-tribe) or an iwi (tribe) for highly valued skills like carving, supreme hospitality, leadership, eloquent oratory, weaving or spiritual, political and physical astuteness. A special feature of group mana is that it can enhance an individual’s mana (Mead, 2003). The following example is one aspect of the many domains that relate to mana. According to Mead (2003), “Every individual Māori is born with an increment of mana” (p. 51). Whether mana is inherited, or earned, other people or oneself can diminish it through actions and behaviours. Mana can also be built up, healed, restored and/or enhanced. Commonly, it is for other people to convey the attributes of a person’s mana (Mead, 2003), which highlights the value of humbleness, best explained here in the Māori proverb “Kāore te kumara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka” (“the kumara does not talk about its own sweetness”) (Speake & Simpson, 2009, p. 174). Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi is descended from Tuwharetoa and Ngāti Porou iwi. Helena met Te Atawhai when She approached her for support to recruit former Māori prisoners for a research project. When they met in 2012, Helena’s first impression of her was that she is a strong organised

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Māori woman, with a caring heart. Helena learnt over time that throughout her life Te Atawhai had her mana diminished by society, by other people and through life events. Her mana was diminished, and in turn she diminished the mana of others along the way. But despite that she has worked tirelessly to restore her mana. She has worked in an advocacy and whānau support role within the Whanganui–Manawatū region, the lower half of the North Island of New Zealand. The sources drawn on to tell this story are the personal stories of Te Atawhai Te Rangi, as told by Desmond (2009), coupled with a face-to-­ face interview with Te Atawhai (Te Rangi, pers. Comm., 15 October 2013), as well as previous conversations with her.

Te Atawhai Nayda Te Rangi Te Atawhai lived through some treacherous situations; she has lived as a “street-kid”, a gang affiliate and she has been to prison. Now, she has children and grandchildren of her own and works in Māori social health. Te Atawhai was born 1959  in Porirua, Wellington. Her father comes from Tūrangi, and her mother from Ruatōria, thus Te Atawhai is a descendant of Tūwharetoa and Ngāti Porou. According to Mead (2003), her descent from iwi with a proud heritage automatically gives her mana. She was born with the mana of her whakapapa (genealogy). Both her parents were fluent in te reo Māori (Māori language), but Te Atawhai was raised in the English language to keep her safe from the settler governments attempts to deconstruct Māori culture and language (Simon & Smith, 2001). Te Atawhai did not know her pepeha (ancestral lineage) nor te reo Māori and had no access to cultural wellness centres like marae (place of gathering) or elders—“So I felt like I was neither Māori nor Pākehā” (Te Rangi, pers. comm., 28 March 2013). Conversely, self-determination defines our social and cultural future and gives validity to our status as Māori women (Evans, 1994), while the loss of self-­identity results in a lack of self-confidence, at the inability to answer these questions (Winitana, 2008). As a result, when Te Atawhai ventured out of the family home to seek her own independence, she lacked self-­determination and self-confidence; “I was a shy girl” (Te Rangi, 2013).

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Initially, 16-year-old Te Atawhai went flatting with her older sister and had a job at a government agency (Desmond, 2009). However, this proved to be a lonely existence, and when an opportunity presented itself to join others of her own age, Te Atawhai jumped at the chance. According to Mikaere (2011), Māori recognise the extent to which people and whenua are interconnected, and have an innate sense of whakapapa and whanaungatanga (relationships) for which we rely upon to survive. Consequently, Te Atawhai’s attempt at whanaungatanga was to become a Wellington city “street kid”, stealing, drinking, nightclubbing and hanging out with gangs (Desmond, 2009). The 1970s was a time of growing unrest, resistance and protest against the marginalisation of Māori in New Zealand. Māori groups such as Ngā Tamatoa set up in the two main cities of New Zealand, Auckland and Wellington. Advocating for Māori liberation and equality, justice and self-determination, groups such as this actively protested against racial discrimination which were enforced by legislative policies designed to decommission Māori culture, custom and values (Harris, 2004). Nationally, there was growing Māori resistance to continued Māori racial discrimination, the genesis of which is found within the eighteenth-­ century arrival of the British settlers and colonial forces (Walker, 1990). In the 1970s, Te Atawhai was living rough and surviving day to day with her fellow street-kid friends. However, in Te Atawhai’s immediate world, gang rape was prolific and keeping safe was a constant anxiety and a survival priority (Te Rangi, 2013). She therefore became a founding member of Aroha Trust; a gang women’s liberation movement that challenged rape and abuse of women within gangs (Desmond, 2009). Aroha Trust’s work cooperative uniform of bush-shirt and jeans also served as a protective shell, keeping Te Atawhai’s female form hidden and providing a means of personal safety (Desmond, 2009). Te Atawhai was first introduced to the concept of mana wāhine through her involvement with the Aroha Trust. In 1976, however, Te Atawhai was sentenced to imprisonment and served seven months in Arohata Prison (near Wellington). She was 18  years old. Her crime was that she “tried to stab somebody in self-­ defence” (Te Rangi, 2013). Upon entry she was required to undergo what was then a standard internal examination; today this practice no longer

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exists. The negative psychological impact this had on how she felt about her body compounded an already marginalised and traumatised mind. On another occasion, she was remanded in prison custody, for failing to give evidence of a stabbing she had witnessed. Of her time in prison, Te Atawhai mentions the gang “kūmara vine”,1 and that by the time she got to prison, gang members already knew what gang she was affiliated to and her offence, so she easily merged into prison gang life. For her these were experiences of “whanaungatanga”, albeit in an institutional setting. When she was released from prison, she returned to the gang life she knew. For 30 years the gang was her family and over this time she had children. It wasn’t until she and her then partner moved to the Whanganui River, that, by taking her children to the local Kōhanga Reo,2 she started to learn Māori customs, values and language and reconnected with her marae (Te Rangi, 2013). It was at this point that her knowledge of tikanga Māori (Māori customary systems) began to grow. Te Atawhai’s life gradually started to change; she became more aware of her cultural environment. Te Atawhai had some good relationships, but in the companionship of her second partner, she suffered years of domestic/interpersonal violence, so much so that her nose was broken many times (Te Rangi, 2013). She distinctly remembers eight consecutive Christmas’ with black eyes (Desmond, 2009). According to Morris, Reilly, Berry, and Ransom (2003), Māori women experience more violence than non-Māori women. However, after 30  years with her gang family, she disengaged from them when she separated from her last partner. The fear of losing her children to child protection and social services was a motivating factor. Over this time, Te Atawhai had done some studying in Māori language, technology and catering. She was able to find stable work at an Iwi Health Authority in the Manawatū–Whanganui region. Remarkably, for this position it was her life experience and personal connections with “hard to reach whānau” that helped her get this position (Te Rangi, 2013). It was at this point that she fully started her healing and recovery journey.  Information spread quickly by word of mouth.  Māori “language nest”—pre-school/kindergarten for babies and toddlers.

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Despite the adversity Te Atawhai has faced, she is open, she is honest and she is upfront. Some people cannot bear to look to their past and then find ways to heal. Te Atawhai achieved part of this by filing a sensitive claim with Accident Compensation Corporation3 and has since had rhinoplasty to repair the years of damage to her nose caused by a violent partner. She has also had facial tattoos removed; her decision was not made lightly because “they were a part of her”, but she made a decision to “let go” (Te Rangi, 2013). Te Atawhai travelled New Zealand for six months in 2009, supporting the author’s promotion of the New Zealand book on woman in gangs (Desmond, 2009). These courageous women in gangs opened up their lives, and at the time, had a huge impact on helping to reduce gang rape (Te Rangi, 2013). Te Atawhai lodged a historical claim in 2008 with the Waitangi Tribunal4 on behalf of all Māori women affected by gangs, finally receiving registration in 2019. The Waitangi Tribunal claim (WAI) 2874—Ko te whakatipuranga o te whānau Māori i ngā ahuatanga whakarōpū tāngata (Growth of the Māori family unit within a gang collective)—concerns mana wahine and alleges the Crown breached the principles of the Treaty of Waitangi by failing to protect the rights and status of wahine Māori; prevent or address the over-representation of wahine Māori in criminal justice system; identify and prevent risk factors which lead to wāhine Māori involvement in gangs; and prevent wahine Māori from the impacts of urbanisation from the Māori institutions of whānau, hapū and iwi. They seek recommendations that the Crown recognise their tino rangatiratanga (self-­determination) and provide full financial compensation for its Treaty of Waitangi breaches. Te Atawhai has courage, strength, passion and kindness to support people, across all spheres of community. Her energy and early social support work encouraged Māori who had been to prison to support our

 New Zealand Crown entity responsible for administering the country’s universal no-fault accidental injury scheme. 4  Established by the Waitangi Tribunal Act 1975, the Waitangi Tribunal is a permanent commission of inquiry, that inquires into historical (1840–1992) breaches of the Treaty of Waitangi 1840. The Treaty of Waitangi is a covenant of principles between the British Crown and Māori. 3

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research into their health and wellbeing after prison.5 We respectfully, and carefully listened to their stories, their lives, and their whakapapa, weaving these together to realise the intimate ancestral connections each had with their whenua to customise community reintegration that worked. Thus, when the research was over, the feeling of connection remained. Te Atawhai is still a passionate and caring advocate for Māori women and men who have been to prison. Te Atawhai’s tireless advocacy work and restoration of diminished mana is shared here, in the hope that it inspires others on their own personal journey.

Exclusion and Imprisonment Te Atawhai encountered substantial exclusion in her early years. Her attempts at employment were not successful, and finding comfortable housing was a challenge. She felt that people treated her differently because of her gang association; however, her gang family was inclusive, and she felt accepted by them. Te Atawhai’s mana was trampled upon by society, and so she trampled upon others, which contributed to her imprisonment. Following her release from prison, she was further excluded from society. Locally and internationally, prisons are used to lawfully remove a person from society, as punishment for an imprisonable offence. Despite common perception that incarceration and crime rates are inherently linked, three studies have found that there is no connection between incarceration rates and crime rates. This phenomenon was explored in an American report (King, Mauer, & Young, 2005), a dissertation (Dhondt, 2012), and an Australian article (Naylor, 2015). The three studies found crime rates and incarceration rates were not related, and that even with a decrease in crime rate, the incarceration rate increased. While the relationship between crime and incarceration are extremely complex, the   In conjunction with post-graduate study, Helena Rattray-Te Mana was project co-­ ordinator/researcher on a research project called “The Health and Wellbeing of Māori Prisoners on Reintegration to the Community”. The lead researcher was Dr Cherryl Smith. This research project was part of an extensive programme of research investigating Māori intergenerational trauma and healing and funded by the Health Research Council of NZ. 5

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three separate studies concluded that incarceration is driven by a neo-­ liberal society, which sought to punish deviants of society. Two comparative examples are America’s high imprisonment rates versus Sweden’s low imprisonment policies. The three studies found that the desire to reduce high incarceration rates was solely driven by western political agendas, which pledge to be “tough on crime” during an election year. This then succeeds in entrenching common negative societal perceptions and attitudes (Rade, Desmarais, & Mitchell, 2016) that stigmatise ex-prisoners, affecting their successful reintegration. This is evidenced with barriers to gainful employment (Cunningham, 2007), healthy homes, health care and so on. Te Atawhai faced the same challenges and could not avoid the judgement. She felt excluded from society. According to Horwatt (1999), the act of ostracism includes silence, exclusion and rejection; the intent is to deprive a social sense of belonging. During six years’ experience as a researcher, interviewer and post-­ graduate student, Helena was tasked with the simple challenge of finding Māori people living in the community, who had been to prison. She found that family, friends and even some social health workers hesitated to acknowledge that they knew former prisoners and prisoners. Her belief is that this disassociation was not due to lack of care or familial love, rather it was driven by stigma, since the social expectation is that we too, must align with punitive legislation “consistently characterised by a specific ‘tough on crime’ narrative that portrays a ‘victim’ versus ‘offender’ dichotomy and assumes that prison is the pathway to public safety” (Johnston, 2016, p.  2). An example is highlighted here by Indigenous senior researcher, Dr Cherryl Smith, who said: amongst Māori whānau there is a silence that falls upon them; a whānau member has suddenly disappeared from their whānau, hapū, and iwi. Not many people will know that someone has gone to prison; it is a shame and embarrassment due to the stigma associated with it. Eventually this person is seen again, otherwise it is only upon personal enquiry that it is revealed that they have been to prison. (pers. Comm., 5 May 2013)

Helena also notes that association to former prisoners has improved in recent years, amidst the growing understanding that continued punitive

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measures within communities, not only limits the growth of former prisoners and their connected families, but also the prosperity of our communities and nation.

Mana Wahine and Leadership Mana wāhine is not a contemporary theory nor is it a movement; instead Mana wāhine theoretically and practically articulates traditional Māori women leadership knowledges and “challenges the dominant hegemons6” (Simmonds, 2009, p. 11). Mana wāhine is a named entity that requires decolonisation, restoration and reclaiming by Māori women, in order to assert and define our own legitimate realities (Katene, 2010; Mikaere, 2011; Simmonds, 2009; Smith, 1999; Winitana, 2008). Māori women such as Donna Awatere, Ripeka Evans, Kuini Jenkins, Kathie Irwin, Patricia Johnston, Ani Mikaere, Leonie Pihama, Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Naomi Simmonds, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku and many others7 have all been influential in articulating mana wāhine, mana wāhine Māori and mana wāhine leadership. Traditionally mana wāhine leadership was inherited or earned. Ngāti Porou wahine leader Hinematioro is an example of inherited leadership. Hinematioro was first-born circa. 1750. Her birth conjugated the finest bloodlines within Ngāti Porou. She was born with the mana of her aristocratic whakapapa, descended from eponymous Ngāti Porou ancestor Paikea. She was generous and kind to her people, using her expansive lands to grow garden produce. She was revered as an ariki (first-born nobility) and was treated with great sacredness (Department of Māori Studies, 1986; Fowler, 1956; Walker, 2017). In contrast, Dame Whina Cooper (1895–1994) is an example of earned leadership (Nash, 2005). Dame Whina displayed astuteness and charm from an early age. She was born in 1895 to Te Rarawa (Northland tribe). She became a passionate leader advocating for Māori women’s rights, housing, Māori land and cultural rights. Dame Whina was also a  Authority over others.  Mana wahine maternities: Reference list (Simmonds, 2011).

6 7

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successful businesswoman in her home region and later became the founding president of the Māori Women’s Welfare League that is still active today. In her 80th year, she famously led 5000 marchers on the 1975 Māori Land March from the top to the bottom of the North Island, Aotearoa; a distance of over 1000 kilometres (King, 2000; Ministry for Culture and Heritage, 2017). These mana wāhine led in two different eras. Hinematioro led during the period of early colonisation, and Dame Whina led during growing national Māori resistance and reclamation from 135 years colonisation and resulting wide-spread marginalisation. The common emergence of great Māori leaders is “need”. For each century and changing social, political and socio-economic climates a leader emerged, to guide and advocate for their whānau, hapū and iwi. Some of the best leaders and mana wāhine leaders have felt the agony of powerlessness through ostracisation, yet they have the courage to envision a better present and future for themselves and their people. They have the resolution, passion and leadership to meet the needs of their people and envision healthy futures. Pihama (2001) states that mana wāhine is about affirming Māori women within Māori society, inside whānau, hapū and iwi. Mead (1994) summarises that Māori leadership is about dedication to ensuring Māori families firstly have access to Māori culture, secondly to political values and finally to economic development. Katene (2010) says that contemporary Māori leadership is about iwi, hapū and whānau, Māori socio-­ economic advancement and political influence. Te Atawhai overcame insurmountable barriers and limitations of life to assert her mana by connecting to her culture, her people, her family and importantly, to herself. Along her life’s journey, she has been brave enough to include others, by supporting them too. She has helped them tell their stories, so that they too can provide guidance and leadership to others. Te Atawhai intimately understands the tough issues people can face: life on the streets, life in gangs, life with violence, life in prison and life after prison. She therefore is aware of the types of assistance needed, the moral and physical support needed to uplift others to overcome the physical and psychological barriers that exist. It is this work, this love and this care for herself and others, that show us that despite the diminishing of mana, a person can replenish their mana with their great deeds and actions for

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themselves and for others, to earn mana wahine status. There are many more women like Te Atawhai in our communities, who are working unrecognised and deserve the same title as powerful strong women leaders, as they quietly carve a path through difficult social terrain.

From Street Kid to Mana Wahine Leader Te Atawhai’s leadership qualities in this area are what Katene (2010) describes as a ternary approach where both master and servant are servants. She is motivating, encouraging and is a tireless worker, “intentionally doing the right thing at the right time for the right reason” (Katene, 2010, p. 13). To this end, Te Atawhai has challenged her surroundings to forge a better future. She had the courage and determination to overcome an often pain-filled life. She has forged ahead with healing her spiritual, emotional and physical pain, restored tikanga Māori to her reality, which in turn replenished her own mana. She has contributed to powerful work in de-stigmatising Māori women in gangs and Māori who have been imprisoned, while always working quietly in the background, accepting neither favour nor thanks, because her vision is on the good future of our people. Inadvertently, she has modelled a way for others who have been in prison, to follow her lead. This embodies an inspirational mana wahine leader. It has been an honour to convey the attributes of Te Atawhai, of which she would not do herself, as explained by the Māori proverb “Kāore te kumara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka”—she would not speak of her own sweetness (Speake & Simpson, 2009, p. 174).

Conclusion The thought that mana is not achievable if you have been to prison has been reviewed by sharing Te Atawhai’s journey, before and after prison. It is then argued that the most excluded women in New Zealand society can become inspirational mana wahine. In conclusion, mana wāhine leadership extends beyond a western interpretation; it is Māori male inclusive and is a term that asserts Māori women’s leadership. It

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purposely claims the dignity and integrity of Māori women, protests the archaic patriarchal colonial practices that seek to oppress Māori women, and resists the notion that we are “less than”. It is the practical application of decolonisation, necessitated by colonial actions that created inequity and injustice. Given that mana can be restored, thus mana wāhine leadership is inclusive, and as a result it does not exclude Māori women who have been to prison, granted that they have the right leadership qualities, and actively participate in determining a selfless vision. Conversely mana wāhine Māori reclaims the status of excluded Māori women in theory and in consciousness. Correspondingly, mana wāhine leadership is sometimes best found amongst those who have experienced and recovered from pain. While not a path of choice, a Māori woman can recover from prison, be a powerful advocate for our people and be an inspirational mana wāhine leader.

Glossary Aotearoa  New

Zealand nobility Hapū  Sub-tribe Iwi  Tribe Ariki  First-born

Kāore te kumara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka  The

own sweetness

Kōhanga Reo  Māori

kumara does not talk about its

language nest for babies and toddlers

Ko te whakatipuranga o te āhine Māori I ngā ahuatanga whakarōpū tāngata  Growth

of the Māori family unit within a gang collective people of New Zealand Mana  Honour, authority, power or prestige Mana atua  Mana Atua, sacred spiritual power from the atuaAtua, God, ancestor with enduring influence Mana moana  Historical and territorial rights over the sea and lake Mana motuhake  Independence, self-determination Mana tangata  Māori human rights Mana wāhine  Māori women’s rights Mana whenua  Historical and territorial rights over the land Marae  Place of gathering that is significant to Māori tribes Māori  Indigenous

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Ngā Rauru  South Taranaki

tribe activist group 1970s to promote Māori rights Ngāti Tūwharetoa  Tūrangi, Tāupo tribe Ngāti Porou  East Coast and Gisborne tribe Pākehā  New Zealand European of settler descent Pepeha  Ancestral lineage to people and places, used when introducing oneself in formal settings Tangata ora  Māori ex-prisoners Tautoko  Support, advocate Tāne  Men Te reo Māori  Māori language Tikanga  Customary system of values and practices Tino rangatiratanga  Self-determination Tūwharetoa  Central north island tribe Wahine  Woman Wāhine  Women Waitangi tribunal  New Zealand commission of inquiry established under the Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975 Whakapapa  Genealogy Whānau  Family including extended family Whanaungatanga  Relationships. Sense of family connection and belonging Whenua  Land Waitangi Tribunal  New Zealand commission of inquiry established under the Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975 Ngā Tamatoa  Māori

References Barlow, C. (1991). Tikanga whakaaro: Key concepts in Māori culture. Auckland: New Zealand. Oxford University Press. Cunningham, S. (2007). Targeting recidivism of ex-offenders through the use of employment. Wellington, New Zealand: Department of Correction. Retrieved from https://www.corrections.govt.nz/resources/newsletters_and_brochures/ j o u r n a l / v o l u m e _ 5 _ i s s u e _ 1 _ j u l y _ 2 0 1 7 / t a r g e t i n g _ re c i d i v i s m _ of_ex-offenders_through_the_use_of_employment Department of Corrections. (2014, March). Quarterly prison statistics. Retrieved from http://www.corrections.govt.nz/resources/facts_and_statistics/quarterly_prison_statistics.html

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Department of Māori Studies. (1986). [Electronic text collection]. Hinematioro. Wellington, New Zealand: Victoria University of Wellington. Retrieved from http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-VUWMarae1986t2-body-d4-d36-d1.html Desmond, P. (2009). Trust: A true story of women and gangs. Auckland, New Zealand: Random House New Zealand. Dhondt, G.L. (2012). The relationship between mass incarceration and crime in the neoliberal period of the United States. Unpublished dissertation. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts. Retrieved from http://scholarworks.umass. edu/open_access_dissertations/636/ Evans, R. (1994). The negation of powerlessness: Maori feminism, a perspective. Hecate Press, 20(2), 53. Retrieved from https://www.questia.com/library/ journal/1G1-16490395/the-negation-of-powerlessness-maorifeminisma-perspective Fowler, L. (1956). Rakau tamatea reke. Te Ao Hou The New World, 17(4), 4. Retrieved from http://teaohou.natlib.govt.nz/journals/teaohou/issue/ Mao17TeA/c10.html Harris, A. (2004). Hîkoi: Forty years of Māori protest. Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers. Henare, M. (2001). Tapu, mana, mauri, hau, wairua: A Māori philosophy of vitalism and cosmos. In J. Grim (Ed.), Indigenous traditions and ecology: The interbeing of cosmology and community. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University. Horwatt, S. (1999). Ostracism. Retrieved from http://ww.psychologyinfo.com/ DrHorwatt/ostracism.htm Johnston, A. (2016). Beyond the prison gate: Reoffending and reintegration in Aotearoa New Zealand. Wellington, New Zealand: Social Policy and Parliamentary Unit. Katene, S. (2010). Modelling Māori leadership: What makes for good leadership? MAI Review, 2, 1–16. King, M. (2000). Cooper, Whina. Te Ara – The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. Retrieved from https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/5c32/cooper-whina King, R.  S., Mauer, M., & Young, M.  C. (2005). Incarceration and crime: A complex relationship. Washington, PA: The Sentencing Project. Retrieved from http://www.sentencingproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/ Incarceration-and-Crime-A-Complex-Relationship.pdf McIntosh, T. (2007). Power, powerlessness and identity. TASA & SAANZ Joint Conference 2007. Auckland, New Zealand: The University of Auckland.

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Mead, A. (1994). Māori leadership. Hui Whakapumau: Māori Development Conference, Massey University. Retrieved from http://www.rangahau.co.nz/ assets//MeadA/nga_tikanga_nga_taonga_Maori_leadership.pdf Mead, H. M. (2003). Tikanga Māori: Living by Māori values. Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers. Mikaere, A. (2011). Colonising myths, Māori realities: He rukuruku whakaaro. Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers. Ministry for Culture and Heritage. (2017). Whina Cooper biography. New Zealand History. Retrieved from https://nzhistory.govt.nz/people/ dame-whina-cooper Moorfield, J. (2011). Te Aka Māori – English, English – Māori dictionary online. Retrieved from https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?idiom=&phrase=&prov erb=&loan=&histLoanWords=&keywords=mana Morris, A., Reilly, J., Berry, S., & Ransom, R. (2003). The New Zealand National Survey of Crime Victims, 2001. Wellington, New Zealand: Ministry of Justice. Nash, M. (2005). Spirituality and hope in social work for social justice (4th ed.). Retrieved from http://www.ucalgary.ca/currents/files/currents/ v4n1_nash.pdf Naylor, B. (2015). The evidence is in: You can’t link imprisonment to crime rates. The Conversation. Melbourne, Australia: Monash University. Retrieved from http://theconversation.com/the-evidence-is-in-you-cantlink-imprisonment-to-crime-rates-40074 Pihama, L. (2001). Mana Wahine as a kaupapa Māori theoretical framework. Retrieved from http://kaupapaMāori.com/assets/tihei_mauri_ora.pdf Rade, C.  B., Desmarais, S.  L., & Mitchell, R.  E. (2016). A meta-analysis of public attitudes toward ex-offenders. Criminal Justice and Behavior, 43(9), 1260–1280. https://doi.org/10.1177/0093854816655837 Simmonds, N. (2009). Mana wāhine geographies: Spiritual, spatial and embodied understandings of Papatūānuku. Unpublished Master’s thesis. Hamilton, New Zealand: University of Waikato. Retrieved from http://researchcommons. waikato.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10289/2798/thesis.pdf?sequence=1 &isAllowed=y Simmonds, N. (2011). Mana wahine maternities: Reference list. Geography Programme, Te Whare Wananga o Waikato. Hamilton, New Zealand: The University of Waikato. Retrieved from http://www.amat.org.nz/Naomi%20 Simmonds%20Mana%20Wahine%20Reference%20List%20Sept%20 2011.pdf

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Simon, J., & Smith, L. (Eds.). (2001). A civilising mission? Perceptions and representations of the native schools system. Auckland, New Zealand: Auckland University Press. Smith, L. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. London: Zed Books. Speake, J., & Simpson, J. (2009). A dictionary of proverbs (5th ed.). Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Walker, R. (1990). Ka whawhai tonu atu: Struggle without end. Auckland, New Zealand: Penguin Books. Walker, W. (2017). Hinematioro. Nga maunga korero. Retrieved from https:// maungakorero.wordpress.com/maunga-korero/issue-8-pukehapopo/ hinematioro-you-cant-touch-this/ Winitana, M. (2008). Contemporary perceptions of mana wahine Māori in Australia: A diasporic discussion. MAI Review, 3, 1–8. Retrieved from http:// www.review.mai.ac.nz/mrindex/MR/article/view/179/188.html

9 What Was My Crime? Being an American Indian Woman Stormy Ogden

Introduction Where I come from i come from those tears that my mom shed as she hid in the fields her belly round with life as my dad chased after her with angry words and fist because he was drunk i come from that anger that my dad held in his heart because he was left behind to be raised by a white family because his mother passed on giving him life

S. Ogden (*) Kashia Pomo & Tule River Yokuts, Eureka, CA, USA © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_9

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i come from the pain of these two people that had the cards stacked against them from the beginning she was a white woman and he an Indian man i come from that bitter-sweet love of these two people that brought a half-breed child into this world Where I come from i come from that sweet burning as the first swallow of whisky slides down my throat taking me along with it for 18 years i come from that shame and fear as I sit in a bath full of blood and cold water trying to wash away the pain from my torn and beaten 12-year-old body after being raped by four classmates i come from that special place that I return to time and time again as the ones that say they love me hit, kick, shoot, and rape me One more time i come from that blood that runs down my fingers as I slide that razor blade across my wrist one more time

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Where I come from i come from too many bars And back seats of cars Too many lovers that had no names And always Not enough whiskey i come from I will never forget you my Sisters as i leave them behind at those prison gates i come from the mission system, the reservations system, boarding schools mental institutions, jails, prisons extermination, assimilation, relocation, self-determination all meaning GENOCIDE i come from HEY! I’m Indian too i just do not know what tribe i think my great grandmother was Cherokee maybe a princess can you teach me how to be Indian? can you give me an Indian name? can you take me to a sweat lodge? HEY! You think you can get me some of that casino monies. Where I come from i come from those waters that travels over the rocks that my Aunties listen to because the rocks teach her the songs that will heal our people

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i come from that hot acorn soup and dried seaweed that our women made to feed the people i come from the sounds of the elderberry clapper sticks that our men play as the women dance upon the lands i come from that pebble that Raven carried in his beak dropping it on the lands that were given to my people. (Ogden, 2002, pp. 6/7)

The Cold Bare Reality of Imprisonment In the warmth of my fantasy, I awake to the cold bare walls of my reality…

Five years! What? Did I just hear the Judge sentence me to five years in state prison? When I walked into the courtroom less than an hour ago, I was already serving a two-year sentence as a state narcotic inmate being housed at the California Rehabilitation Center (CRC) in Riverside County, California. With this new sentence, I became a prisoner of the state where before I was considered to be a narcotic addict of the state. Being sentenced as a Narcotic addict meant that I could work a programme and be out of prison in no longer than two years. But that no longer applied to me. At the age of 22, I was on my way to prison with a five-year sentence. Well, at least I was returning to CRC and the American Indian women’s group that was being formed. I remember the feeling of my knees buckling out from under me and wondering how I was going to get back up if I fell since my hands were handcuffed behind my back and there was also a chain going around my waist connected to cuffs around each ankle. A few weeks earlier I had been transported up from CRC to face new criminal charges out of Stanislaus County. I had just received a prison

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sentence of two years with an N number coming out of Tuolumne County. I had fought hard to get that N number. What it meant was that I could do a rehabilitation programme, which usually took nine months to complete, but it would also include seven years of parole. The only other sentencing choice coming from my probation officer (PO) was the possibility of being sentenced to a state-run mental hospital until the Judge decided that I could be released back into society. This brought up thoughts of frontal lobotomies and drugs that would turn me into a zombie. At the time, I had wondered how this N number sentencing was going to ever happen for me since I never had any drug charges on my “rap sheet”. The only charges against me were alcohol related. My choice of abuse was alcohol—I mean how could it not be? I grew up hearing that all Indians were drunks. Everyone knew they couldn’t handle their “firewater”. The most hurtful remark came from my White mother that I was going to grow up to be just like my dad, “a drunk Indian”. But from what I knew there was nothing on my past record that could possibly be used against me and get me sentenced to a state-run mental hospital. My PO informed me that since I was American Indian and a known alcoholic, the courts would use that against me. A week later, I was back in the van—handcuffed and belly shackled—heading back down to the CRC with a sentence of five years. What was my crime? Why five years in prison for less than $2000 of welfare fraud? The sentence I received did not fit the crime. The emotional abuse that I had to endure did not fit the crime.

Sticks and Stones Sticks and Stones Will break our bones but names can never hurt us…

We have all heard that children’s rhyme. Maybe even sang it on the playground. But names can hurt, even kill, and they have been used historically and systematically to dehumanise the Native peoples of these lands. The first derogatory remark I heard about being Indian was “I

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don’t understand why you are so proud of your Dad being Indian. Your dad is just a drunk Indian and you will be just like him.” Those words came from my White mother. So yes, names do hurt. They become wounds that never completely heal. All women that are locked up behind bars must fight to maintain a sense of self and self-worth within a system that is set up to isolate and degrade, a system that is only meant to punish. But as American Indians, we must also fight for our identity on the lands of our ancestors. Upon entering prison, the administration will classify the inmate as being Black, White, or Other. For me, I became W-20170, my state number, and was classified as being Other. There was nothing I could do about the state-­ given number, but I sure could do something about being classified as Other. I’m not an OTHER! I’m a Kashia Pomo, my grandfather’s people, and Tule River Yokuts, my grandmother’s people. Outside every door, the correctional officer (CO) placed a small eight-­ by-­five index card with the last name, state number, and race. For me, they wrote down OTHER. As days went by and my anger grew, I began crossing this word out and would write American Indian in its place. Then, I was off to my state job for $32.00 a month. When I would return each afternoon for headcount, there would be a new card in its place. After a few days of this back and forth, the CO informed me that if I destroyed state property one more time, he would write me up and I would lose 60 days of “good time”. The next morning, I was late for work. It took me some time to track down a permanent laundry marker and when I did, I tore the card off the wall and wrote American Indian in bold black letters. By taking this small stand against the prison administration classifying me as OTHER, it could also be said I was fighting for the dignity of all Indians who were once hunted down on their traditional lands in early California. Their Indian names, their family names, were taken away to be replaced for Christian ones. A part of their identity was stripped away along with their humanity since the conquerors began referring to them as “diggers”. Taking away the identity of Native people can be seen as a tactic used by colonisers to brutalise an entire race of people. By taking away the humanity of Native people, it allowed for extinction and extermination, and historical violence against Native peoples. The

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perpetrators justified their heinous actions on a people, who they deemed as lacking humanity, thus becoming guilt-free. Due to racism along with the settler’s greed for land, they broadly labelled the native people as “diggers”. The term “digger” was a curse used to encapsulate Indians as being treacherous, bloodthirsty, dirty, lazy, and such portrayals were often accompanied by violence. An 1864 correspondent from Orleans stated that “[a] mean ‘Digger’ only becomes a ‘good Indian’ when he is dangling at the end of a rope or has an ounce of lead in him” (Madley, 2017, p. 289). From “digger” another catchword came into use during this period—extermination. It was from this word that the stage for outright slaughter came into play. Extermination is a term often used in relation to the killing of rodents or vermin rather than people. The term’s reference in relation to Natives emphasised the colonisers’ contempt for the Indians of California. Governor Peter Burnett’s address to the California State Legislature in 1851 stated “[t]hat a war of extermination will continue to be waged … until the Indian becomes extinct, must be expected…” (cited in Stanley, 1997, p. xiv). Once Indians were thought of and consistently framed in a dehumanising manner, they were to be silenced because the views of those who are less than human do not have a value as a people. Once Indians were thought of as being less than human by the invaders it became easier for the state-endorsed war of extermination to continue. Stanley (1997) noted that “The local newspapers carried stories of men who hunted and shot Indian for sport” (p. xiv). For example, the Humboldt Times ran bold headlines such as: “Good Haul of Diggers—Band Exterminated” and “Good Haul of Diggers—Thirty-Eight Bucks Killed, Forty Squaws and Children Taken” (cited in Stanley, 1997, p. 67). The laws and policies that govern the criminal justice system today are rooted in the laws and policies that were created to massacre and exterminate people native to these lands. This can be seen today as Native people are being incarcerated at an alarmingly high rate. Hartney and Vuong (2009) state that “Disproportionately high numbers of American Indians imprisoned in the American penal system. The national rate for new admissions to prisons for American Indian men is roughly four times higher than white men and is almost seven times higher for American Indian women than for white women” (p. 16). As a people, our struggle

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has been threefold, for ancestral lands, cultural ways and simply the right to live. For our women, there is an extra struggle; the right to freedom from sexual assault. As Luana Ross (1998) notes, “the violence experienced by women prior to incarceration continues inside the prison in a variety of forms including sexual intimidation” (p. 6). One of the most horrific and humiliating experiences that happened to me was in a holding cell in Visalia, California. I was being transported from prison back to Modesto to face new criminal charges. At that time, the CRC allowed the women prisoners to wear their own clothes. Arriving at the holding jail, I was shackled and belly chained, waiting for the jail van to come to transport me to the country jail. The male guards decided that I could no longer wear my “prison” clothes since I was going to be county property and the women at county were required to wear army green jumpsuits. Without anything to change into I was made to strip including my bra and panties, while the guards acted as if they were trying to find me a jumpsuit to put on. I stood there cold and naked in that small holding cell as male guards would slide open the small opening in the door to check on me. What were they expecting me to do? After what seemed like forever the cell door opened to a guard holding my clothes, throwing them back at me saying, “put these on, the jail will dress you out when you get there”. With a hateful smirk on his face, he slammed the door with a bang.

Institutionalised Criminalisation My experiences with the penal system inform my activism to continually shed light on state-sanctioned violence against American Indians. On April 28–29, 2000, myself along with many other activists were invited to speak at the first The Color of Violence: Violence Against Women of Color conference held in Santa Cruz, California (see Smith, 2001). Well over 1000 people gathered to discuss and strategise about the interconnectedness among sexual/domestic violence, racism, and colonialism in the lives of women of colour. This was my first time being asked to be part of this type of dialogue.

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A year earlier, I had found a book in the bookstore at San Francisco State University that gave me a clear direction for my future advocate/ activist work for Native women within the federal and state prisons. As an American Indian woman and ex-prisoner, I had first-hand experience of the system, but it was through this book that I was able to understand how the federal and state governments, since colonisation, had established laws that made it nearly impossible for the American Indian people to avoid imprisonment in one form of prison or another. Inventing the Savage: The Social Construction of Native American Criminality (1998) by Dr Luana Ross (Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes) explicated the complex web of my reality as a Native woman and the role of the penal institution and other forms of imprisonments-ever-present tools of subjugation and oppression in the lives of American Indians. Ross (1998) points out that “Native people have long faced the criminalization of their identities, culture and traditions; and the U.S. legal system has institutionalised criminality”. It is from the foundation of this statement that I embarked upon my journey tracing the path of my experiences, as well as the experiences of other imprisoned Native women, to the larger colonial-genocidal project that consisted of policies created by the invaders to be used against the Native people of these lands now known as California. The criminalisation of Native peoples has its historical framework in colonialism and one product of this colonialism is the controlling of people through laws that criminalise their behaviour. Today this “foreign” criminal justice system in Indian country is extremely complex and difficult to explain, let alone comprehend. The governing principles are upheld in hundreds of status and court decisions, which were passed without the consent or even knowledge of the various Indian Nations. As a result, American Indians are most likely to come into direct conflict with the criminal justice system at an earlier age. Between the ages of 11 and 13, I was locked up in juvenile hall no less than three times. Each time the reason being that my mother considered me to be incorrigible. She decided that my behaviour could no longer be controlled because I would not stop running away from home. It was during this time that my mother’s recent husband and my grandmother’s husband began molesting me. This was also the time that I was

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gang-­raped by four classmates. I was not safe at home or at school. Yet, the system was not designed to protect me, but rather to label me as deviant which, in turn, facilitated my imprisonment. There was not a single adult, including my White mother, who would listen to me, let alone would protect me. Within the colonial system, I was not extended the privilege and right to be viewed as the young victim I was with a desperate need to be heard and protected. Instead, I was criminalised, which was consistent with the dominant White ideology with “juvenile prison” being the only option afforded to someone like me. As Arya and Rolnick (2006) note: “Although Native youth are only 1 percent of the national youth population, 70 percent of youth committed to the Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) as delinquents are Native American, as are 31 percent of youth committed to the BOP as adults” (p. 8).

Cultural Genocide and Legislated Dehumanisation The history between Indian nations and the USA has been marked by oppressive laws and policies created to strip away the sovereignty of Indian nations, to steal the lands, and to weaken their culture. In 2003 I noted that “These laws were geared towards the total annihilation and then assimilation of Indian people into the dominant society” (Ogden, 2003, p.  36). Two such examples of these laws were the Reservation System and the Boarding Schools. In 1851, “the US Congress passes the Indian Appropriations Act, creating the Reservation system […] [which] forces Native peoples to move to and live on reservations, where it can better subdue them” (US National Library of Medicine, 2019a). The reservation system came under the management of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which was located within the War Department. The federal government had set aside tracts of land for the removed Indian Nations. This forced Native nations from their traditional lands and brought them under the control of the USA. They were no longer free to hunt, fish, gather traditional foods, or practice their cultural ceremonies. Instead, the government started with food

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rations which would introduce “poison” in the form of flour, lard, sugar, and salt into Native diets. In 1868, “President Ulysses S.  Grant established a ‘Peace Policy’ to remove corrupt Indian agents, who supervise reservations, and replace them with Christian missionaries, whom he deems morally superior” (US National Library of Medicine, 2019b), but the policy of assimilation and indoctrination of Indian people into the American culture was not happening fast enough. So, began the Boarding School system. In 1879, “Congress authorizes the establishment of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania” (US National Library of Medicine, 2019c). The school’s first superintendent, Captain Henry Pratt, established a system that would take young children from their tribes, indoctrinating them into Christianity and the values of White culture. Pratt advocated for cultural rather than physical genocide: “Kill the Indian, save the man”. Children were physically forced from their homes into the schools where their Indian names were replaced with English ones, their languages were forbidden, traditional ceremonies were not allowed, and they were taught that the lifeways of their people were inferior to that of White people. All of this was an attempt to de-Indianise the younger generation. As Ross (1998) notes, “absolutely everything that was even remotely identifiable as being Indian was uncompromisingly prohibited at the boarding schools” (p. 5). The reservation system and the boarding schools established polices that eradicated traditional culture, family patterns, and communal behaviour. However, for the Native people of California, this systematic destruction of a people began 100 years earlier with the establishment of the Spanish Missions (see, e.g., Madley, 2017). Today these missions are perceived as quaint historical landmarks, but for Native people, they symbolise institutions of torture and death. For me as a young fourth grader, having to sit in class and learn about the missions, was a time of dread and humiliation. I remember wishing that I could hide as the teacher shared with the class that the Indians of that time were called “diggers”. She said this was due to the fact that the Indians would dig in the dirt to get bugs such as worms and beetles to eat. At recess, I was teased ruthlessly by my classmates as they called me “digger” and “dirty Indian” and wanted to know if I still ate bugs. At that

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time, I did not realise the psychological violence I endured through the so-called formal school system. Epistemic violence was embedded in the curriculum as it failed to accurately recount the history of my people while heralding my oppressors as heroes and as morally superior. These ill-formed lessons taught by White teachers indoctrinated my White peers with a sense of superiority and that experience extended, for both me and my White peers, beyond the classroom. The presence of missions along the Pacific Coast of what is now California has a long, complex history. In 1769, Padre Junipero Serra established the first of 21 Spanish missions along the Pacific Coast of Alta California. They ranged from the first one of San Diego de Alcala in the South, up to San Francisco de Solano in the North. Mission life signified the beginning of horrendous physical suffering and cultural genocide as Native Indians were forced to convert to the Roman Catholic religion and the Spanish way of life. Labour required to build these missions and other facilities around them fell upon Native men, women, and even children in the form of both forced and free labour. Trafzer (1999) stated that “The church also forced California Indians to do nearly all the work in the Missions and labor as slaves of Christ” (p. 7). The oppression of Native Indians of California occurred long before California became a state and continued long after. As Ross (1998) described in her influential book on Native women and the prison system, genocidal policies towards Native people has never been against the law and were often upheld by Christian beliefs, and then by the law at all levels of government. Ross (1998) wrote that “Through various procedures, the state, and federal governments defined Native Americans as ‘deviant’ and ‘criminal’” (p. 5). Never was this intentional criminalisation more apparent than in the passing of the Act for the Government and Protection of Indians on April 22, 1850. The Act “was intended by whites to destroy tribalism and place Native Americans into a subservient, dependent condition with California’s racist society” (Trafzer, 1999, p. 21). Early California state laws discriminated against California Indians by creating an indentured system and by establishing the right for Whites to control the lives of Indian children. Rushed through the first state legislature in 1850, the Indian Indenture Act made it legal to own Indians and to work them as slaves. The Act gave way to Indians being exposed to

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violence and exploitation as it legally set the groundwork for land fraud, dispossession, slavery, kidnapping, rape, and mass murder (Madley, 2017). These laws were interpreted in a way that Indians faced indentured servitude. Native Indians encountered a hyper-social policing whereby Indians who seemed to be loitering or strolling about would often be arrested and incarcerated. Norton (1997) stated that “Under cover of the apprenticeship provisions of the laws of 1850 and 1860, the sale of Indians, especially young women and children were carried out as regular business in California” (p. 154). Imitating the state legislature, the Los Angeles City Council passed its own ordinance in 1850. The provisions in the state laws “resulted in the institution of a slave mart in Los Angeles where captives were auctioned off to the highest bidder for ‘private service’” (Norton, 1997, p. 207). Through racist laws created and enforced by the colonisers to these lands, Native peoples had their original ways of life devastated first by the Spanish, then by the Mexicans, and lastly by the Anglo-Americans (Madley, 2017). The Indians of California have spent generations fighting against these three invaders, fighting for ancestral lands, religious and ceremonial rights, and simply the right to live. As Native people of this Turtle Island, we come from a history of being incarcerated because of foreign laws that have been created and enforced to strip of us of our identity, language, culture, and religious ceremonies. But there are also stories of survival, and stories of resistance.

Resistance The reservations, the boarding schools, and the mission system set the path for the life of a Native Indian long before I entered the state prison to start doing those five years. My DNA, my ancestral blood knew of the fear, the humiliation, and the pain of being a human being locked away mentally, emotionally and physically. As Native people of this Turtle Island, we come from a history of being incarcerated and having our identity, language, culture, and religious ceremonies “beaten” out of us. But it is from that same ancestral blood, that blood memory, that also

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knows about resistance. Without those acts of resistance, I would not be here to share my stories with you. I became involved with prisoner rights organisations and began to be invited to speak out and write of my experiences of being an American Indian woman in prison. I came to realise that the description by Angela Y. Davis (2001) of the prison industrial complex (PIC) “as a complex web of racism, social control, and profit” (p.  59) had its beginnings in the genocidal progress of manifest destiny; and for the natives of California this “blueprint” was achieved originally through the Spanish missions of Alta California. Lightfoot (2006) clearly lays out the similarities: “The Missions resembled penal institutions in many respects, with the practice of locking up some neophytes at night […] the use of corporal punishment, and the relatively tight control of behavior” (p. 62). It was with this new awareness that in 2005 at the Hoopa Wellness Conference on the Hoopa Indian Reservation, I first presented a workshop entitled From Mission to Maximum Security: The Prison Industrial Complex in Indigenous California. And, to this day, I continue to look at the PIC through the eyes of a Californian Indian woman and ex-prisoner of the California Department of Corrections. As I was searching for examples of resistance in early California, Dr Kimberly Robertson (Mvskoke) suggested to look into Toypurina, a medicine woman of the Tongva Nation—a nation later to be known as Gabrielino because of their association with the Mission San Gabriel just east of what is now known as Los Angeles. The more I read about the courage and survival of this Tongva woman, the more I wondered why this part of our history was never taught and, if it had been, then maybe I would not have been bullied at recess for “eating bugs”. The peoples of Toypurina tribe had rejected joining the mission and being baptised, although this did not stop them from knowing what the conditions were for the mission’s baptised neophyte.1 It was in 1785 that Nicolas José, a tribal member and neophyte, sought help from Toypurina. Being well known as a respected medicine woman, it was thought she  Good time was credit that was given to each prisoner as a sentence reduction who maintained good behaviour while imprisoned. Prisoners are eligible for this if they are serving a prison term more than one year. 1

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would be instrumental in the recruiting of other villages to join in the revolt against the friars and military officials inside the mission. Ordered by Governor Fagess, the baptised Indians were prohibited from performing seasonal dances; his reasoning behind this was, “by prohibiting such dances, the Indians would eventually forget them and assimilate faster into the Spanish life of Alta California” (cited in Castillo, 2015, p. 165). It was in the fall that they held their annual mourning ceremony, a time during which death rituals were performed to release the soul of the deceased from the earth so they could go to the land of the dead. They believed that not performing these dances would endanger the spirits of their living relatives. The soldiers stationed at the Mission were told about the plot and stopped the riot, capturing Toypurina, and other leaders involved. Awaiting trial, she was held for 16 months in solitary confinement before being banished from her home to the mission Carlos Borromeo. In the end, she was forced into being baptised and her named was changed to Regina Josefa Toypurnia. Toypurina’s legacy of resistance to oppression and her protest against Spanish colonialism will not be overlooked or forgotten. Her story lives on in the play Toypurina (San Gabriel Mission Playhouse, 2019), which was performed in 2014. There is a new revolt on the Tongva lands, which is meant to educate people about the slavery and genocide that happened on the stolen land on which they stand.

A New Revolt: #JailBedDrop In early 2017, I was introduced to Kimberly Robertson and Jenell Navarro (Cherokee descent) who are co-creators of The Green Corn Collective (GCC). They had joined together with other local Los Angeles artists who came together to be part of the JusticeLA #JailBedDrop campaign (JusticeLA, 2019). This action was meant to bring awareness and dialogue around the County’s decision to expand its jail system with $3.5  billion in funding. The GCC—“a constellation of Indigenous Feminist Bosses” (Anderson, Campbell, & Belcourt, 2018, p.  337)— created their Indigenous feminist #JailBed, wanting to bring attention to the high rate of native people incarcerated in US prisons. On Christmas

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Eve, they placed their decorated bunk bed at the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Downtown Los Angeles (Pratt, 2018). The reason behind this location was to bring attention to the fact that up into the 1850s Indian people were sold as slaves on Temple Street. I highly suggest going to their website (Robertson, 2019) to see the beauty, the healing, and the Indianness that was woven into the many different offerings on each bed of the bunk. Also included were several printed zines that could be taken to read, which highlighted the issues around mass incarceration since 1492. I asked Kimberly and Janell to tell me the meaning of their name, and how and when they got together: The collective was founded by south-eastern native feminists and our largest ceremonial and festive time of the year is held before the corn is harvested. This ceremony is called the green corn ceremony and it elevates new beginnings and a time of renewal […] from over a decade of collaborative Native feminist dialogues and projects. However, it formally began in 2017 and the JailBed project was one of the first projects carried out by the collective. (pers. comm., 7 July 2019)

My experiences resonate strongly with those of too many other Native women. I had spent years finding ways to fight against all the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, and the methods I found was in alcohol, drugs, sex, and physical abuse against myself and others. The self-abuse stopped when I entered prison but not the abuse by others; this time it was at the hands of the prison administration. Looking at my experiences in prison, I can clearly see the connection between the missions, the boarding schools, and what we go through in prison. On the first day when we first get off the bus, we are no longer our own person; we belong to the state of California, and we become cheap labour for their profit-­ making machines. We are stripped of our identity; names are replaced by numbers, and for us, the pride of being native is stripped down to being Other. Then street clothes are taken and replaced with a state-issued uniform; then on to the showers and being de-loused.2 And one last thing before they are done—the search for contraband that, in some facilities,  This happened to me each time I went to Juvenile Hall.

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came with a cavity search, which is, at any time, humiliation. During my time there were not a lot of women COs. The male guard would stand outside the room, but still, it felt like I was sexually abused. Again. Across all the prisons, Native prisoners have that one common struggle, which is the right to pray in the Indian way. Native men are still fighting to wear their hair long, although I recently read about a huge victory for some Native inmates in Texas who won their lawsuit to be allowed to wear their hair long (Blakinger, 2019). With each Native person we lose to incarceration, we lose important human and cultural resources in their tribes and families. I lost most of my 20s to being locked up. In cases where there are children in the family, they are affected by the loss of their family member and the loss of their childhood.

Conclusion I choose to end my chapter with this poem by an amazing Menominee, two-spirited woman and all-around badass. I met her years ago at the first INCITE conference in Santa Cruz. We have been friends ever since. Chrystos carries with her years of wisdom as a self-educated artist and writer, and is an activist for several Native rights and prisoners’ causes. She wrote this poem when she was allowed into the Women’s Federal Prison in Dublin, California. Chrystos (1995) was bringing in her healing through the words, through her voice, to the Indian women of Four Winds: Going into the Prison The guard growls, What’s this?! Poetry, I answer, just Poetry He waves me through With a yawn That delights me So, I smuggle my words in To the women Who bite them chewing starving

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I’m honored to serve them Bring color music feelings Into that soul death Smiling as I weep For Poetry who has such a bad reputation She’s boring, unnecessary, incomprehensible Obscure, effete The perfect weapon For this sneaky old war-horse To make a rich repast of revolution

References Anderson, K., Campbell, M., & Belcourt, C. (Eds.). (2018). Keetsahnak: Our missing and murdered Indigenous sisters. Edmonton, Alberta: The University of Alberta Press. Arya, N., & Rolnick, A. C. (2006). A tangled web of justice: American Indian and Alaska Native youth in federal, state and tribal justice systems. The Campaign for Youth Justice Policy Brief, Race and Ethnicity Series, Vol. 1. Retrieved from www.campaignforyouthjustice.org Blakinger, K. (2019, 18 March). Native American inmates win right to long hair in Texas prison. Houston Chronicle, Retrieved from www.houstonchronicle.com Castillo, E. (2015). A cross of thorns: The enslavement of California Indians by the Spanish missions. Fresno, CA: Craven Street Books. Chrystos. (1995). Fire power. Vancouver, BC: Press Gang Publishers. Davis, Y. A. (2001). Race, gender, and the prison industrial complex: California and beyond. Meridians, 2(1), 1–25. Hartney, C., & Vuong, L. (2009). Created equal: Racial and ethnic disparities in the US criminal justice system. National Council on Crime and Delinquency. Retrieved from www.nccdglobal.org/sites/default/files/publication_pdf/created-equal.pdf JusticeLA. (2019). #JailBedDrop reminds Angelinos of those incarcerated during holiday season. Retrieved from http://justicelanow.org/jailbeddrop-remindsangelinos-of-those-incarcerated-during-holiday-season

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Lightfoot, G. K. (2006). Indians, missionaries and merchants: The legacy of colonial encounters on the California frontiers. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Madley, B. (2017). An American genocide: The United States and the California Indian catastrophy, 1846–1873. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Norton, J. (1997). Genocide in northwestern California: When our world cried. San Francisco, CA: The Indian Historian Press. Ogden, S. (2002). Where I come from. The Fire Inside, 23, 6–7. Retrieved from https://www.womenprisoners.org/fire/issue_23_winter_200203 Ogden, S. (2003). The prisonification of Indian women. California Coalition for Women Prisoners. Retrieved from https://womenprisoners.org/2003/08/ the-prisonification-of-indian-women Pratt, S. (2018). Indigenous artists join in Los Angeles’s #JailBedDrop. First American Art Magazine, January 12. Retrieved from http://firstamericanartmagazine.com/jailbeddrop Robertson, K. D. (2019). JusticeLA #JailBedDrop. Retrieved from www.kimberlydawnrobertson.com/creative-works Ross, L. (1998). Inventing the savage: The social construction of Native American criminality. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. San Gabriel Mission Playhouse. (2019). Toypurina 2014: A story of love, determination and loss. Retrieved from https://missionplayhouse.org/about/ toypurina-2014 Smith, A. (2001). The color of violence: Violence against women of color. Meridians, 1(2), 65–72. Stanley, J. (1997). Digger: The tragic fate of the California Indians from missions to the gold rush. New York, NY: Crown Publishers. Trafzer, E. H. (1999). Exterminate them: Written accounts of the murder, rape and enslavement of Native Americans during the California gold rush, 1848–1868. East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press. US National Library of Medicine. (2019a). 1851: Congress creates reservations to manage Native peoples. Retrieved from www.nlm.nih.gov/nativevoices/timeline/317.html US National Library of Medicine. (2019b). 1868: President Grant advances ‘Peace Policy’ with tribes. Retrieved from www.nlm.nih.gov/nativevoices/timeline/342.html US National Library of Medicine. (2019c). 1879: First off-reservation boarding school for Native children opens. Retrieved from www.nlm.nih.gov/nativevoices/timeline/357.html

10 Trauma, Healing, and Justice: Native Hawaiian Women in Hawaii’s Criminal Justice System Toni Bissen

Introduction The United States has 4% of the world’s female population and 30% of the world’s female prison population (Kaistura, 2018). With these kinds of figures, the term ‘mass incarceration’ is often used. In Hawaii, disproportionate or overrepresentation are usually referenced when describing Native Hawaiian females in prison. In 2010, Native Hawaiian women made up 44% of the incarcerated population in Hawaii and were 20% of the general population (Office of Hawaiian Affairs, 2010). In 2012, there was a 4% decrease with Native Hawaiian women making up 40% of the incarcerated population (Kamehameha Schools, 2014). As of 2019, the incarcerated population of Native Hawaiian women remains at 40% (Hawaii Department of Public Safety, 2019), with a slight increase to the count of Native Hawaiian women in the general population, amounting

T. Bissen (*) Pūʻā Foundation, Honolulu, HI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_10

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to 21% (State of Hawaii Data Book, 2017). This chapter will address why there is such a disproportionality and what is being done about it. This chapter also will provide a brief overview of Hawaii’s history, the trauma that underlies justice system involvement, direct and social cost analysis, and the promising efforts of innovative gender and culturally responsive, trauma-informed approaches that address the overrepresentation of Native Hawaiian women in prison. Examination of the Pu‘uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model and Framework, developed by Pūʻā Foundation, along with its community and government partners from the Trauma-Informed Care Initiative (TICI) at the Women’s Community Correctional Center (WCCC), and evaluative data analysis of three specific initiatives will also be included.

 rief History of Hawaii: Historical B Traumatic Events In 1895, Queen Liliʻuokalani, the constitutional monarch of Hawaii, was arrested and imprisoned. An unlawful governing body made up of insurgents, initially backed by the United States, convened legal proceedings against her and imprisoned her for the bogus charge of treason, supported by fabricated evidence (Lili’uokalani, 1990; Sai, 2011). At this point in time, Hawaii was in the midst of political power struggles. Insurgents plotted against the Queen to overthrow the Hawaiian government and support US annexation of Hawaii. Economics and Hawaii’s strategic location in the Pacific were key motivating factors. Between 1893 and 1897, two attempts to effectuate annexation failed. The first attempt began on January 16, 1893, when a small group of insurgents, calling themselves the ‘Committee of Safety’, conspired with the USA to land troops onto Hawaiian soil. On January 17, the group declared themselves to be the ‘Provisional Government’ and took steps to annex the Hawaiian Islands to the USA through a voluntary treaty of cession. The second attempt was in 1897 when the same insurgents, now calling themselves the ‘Republic of Hawaii’, submitted another treaty.

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In the continued US efforts to take control of Hawaii, Congress passed the Newlands Joint Resolution as the vehicle of the United States. The joint resolution did not require two-thirds vote in the Senate and passed out of Congress for approval by President William McKinley. As the Spanish American war got underway in April 1898 with fighting in the Philippines, the need for the US military to utilize Hawaii’s strategic location in the Pacific, especially the use of Pearl Harbor, motivated the USA to annex Hawaii. President McKinley signed the Newlands Resolution on July 7, 1898. Thereafter in 1900, the US Congress renamed the insurgents’ illegitimate government formerly known as the Republic of Hawaii to be the Territory of Hawaii. In 1959, the US Congress, again by Congressional Act, renamed the Territory of Hawaii to the State of Hawaii. Under closer examination, America’s claim to Hawaii has been a subject in question being addressed through international legal proceedings and current scholarship. Research in this area reveals that once a State’s sovereignty is established, it cannot be extinguished when the sitting government is overthrown. Moreover, one State cannot take control over another by a domestic internal law, such as the Newlands Joint Resolution. Without a treaty of annexation or treaty of conquest, effectuating the cession of one State with another, no such merging occurs. Hence, as in the case of Hawaii and the United States, there is no treaty to substantiate the contrary, thus, Hawaii’s sovereignty remains intact with its territory being occupied by the USA (Coffman, 2009). In 1993, the USA formally apologized for the 1893 overthrow of the Hawaiian government with the enactment of Public Law 103. It stated, “To acknowledge the 100th anniversary of the January 17, 1893 overthrow of the Kingdom of Hawaii, and to offer an apology to Native Hawaiians on behalf of the United States for the overthrow of the Kingdom of Hawaii” (see https://www.congress.gov/bill/103rd-congress/ senate-joint-resolution/19). That same year, the United Church of Christ (UCC) apologized for its complicity in the overthrow and began a redress and reconciliation process. On behalf of the UCC, its President, Reverend Dr. Paul H. Sherry, came to Hawaii and made a public apology. He stated:

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We are gathered in this place at the request of the 18th General Synod of the United Church of Christ, to recall with sorrow the unprovoked invasion of the Hawaiian nation on January 17, 1893, by forces of the United States. We are gathered here so that, as President of the United Church of Christ, I can apologize for the support given that act by ancestors of ours in the church now known as the United Church of Christ. We do so in order to begin a process of repentance, redress and reconciliation for wrongs done. We are here not to condemn, but to acknowledge. We are here to commit ourselves to work alongside our na Kanaka Maoli sisters and brothers—both those in the United Church of Christ and those beyond—in the hope that a society of justice and mercy for them and for all people, everywhere, may yet emerge. (Cited in Bissen, 2014, p. 84; see also Sherry, 1993)

Following this public apology, the UCC developed a three-part reparation and reconciliation scheme: (1) monies would be given to Native Hawaiian Churches in existence at the time of the 1893 overthrow; (2) monies would be given to the newly developed Association of Hawaiian Evangelical Churches created to represent Hawaiian Churches within the governing structure of the Hawaii UCC organization; and (3) land and monies would be given to an independent entity created outside the UCC to promote reconciliation efforts (Bissen, 2014). That organization is the Pūʻā Foundation. The Pūʻā Foundation is a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt non-profit organization that was established in 1996. Its vision is that “through pū’ā, the process of feeding, nourishing, and strengthening, there will be the emergence of enlightened communities and society” (see http://www.puafoundation.org/about/). The Foundation’s mission is “to actively engage, facilitate and serve communities and their efforts to build a resilient society and improve upon their quality of life through healing and reconciliation efforts that address consequences of the 1893 overthrow.” Its overarching goal is to promote healing and reconciliation on an individual and collective basis within the Native Hawaiian community and beyond. Pūʻā considers the over-representation of Native Hawaiians in the criminal justice system as an example of a consequence of the historical

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traumatic event of the 1893 overthrow and the reverberating effect that is still felt today. The Foundation’s position on incarceration is that it is: (1) related to the cycle of poverty; (2) a public health matter that affects the entire community; and (3) connected to issues dealing with historical, community, and individual trauma. Accordingly, Pūʻā has developed a focus in this area, particularly with females in the criminal justice system. Native Hawaiian women are disproportionately incarcerated within Hawaii’s prison system and trauma is a major contributing factor (see http://www.puafoundation.org/). In response, Pūʻā, along with its community and government partners, created the Pu‘uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model and Framework that comprises a system of care for addressing the historical, community, and individual trauma that underlies justice system involvement. The model was developed as an outgrowth of the TICI at the WCCC, which started in 2009. Pūʻā was on the TICI leadership team and contributed to the project as the community coordinator. More information about the TICI and Puʻuhonua Model efforts since 2009, as well as the current progress to address the overrepresentation issue, will be provided in a later section.

Individual, Community, and Historical Trauma: Defined The foregoing historical overview points out that the 1893 overthrow and imprisonment of Queen Liliʻuokalani were significant historical events. These were community-threatening events, shared by the Hawaii community and inflicted on the community by the US usurping the Hawaiian Nation’s Sovereignty. The adverse prolonged effect continues as America’s power and presence exist in Hawaii today. This is historical trauma as defined by the US Department of Health and Human Services, Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). In its report, Concept of Trauma and Guidance for a Trauma-Informed Approach released in 2014, SAMSHA defines and describes individual, community, and historical trauma as:

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Individual Trauma—Individual trauma results from an event, series of events, or set of circumstances that is experienced by an individual as physically or emotionally harmful or threatening and that has lasting adverse effects on the individual’s functioning and physical, social, emotional, or spiritual well-being. Community Trauma—Community trauma does not occur in a vacuum. Individual trauma occurs in a context of community, whether the community is defined geographically as in neighbourhoods; virtually as in a shared identity, ethnicity, or experience; or organizationally, as in a place of work, learning, or worship. Historical Trauma—Another perspective on trauma and communities is the understanding that communities as a whole can also experience trauma. Just as with the trauma of an individual or family, a community may be subjected to a community-threatening event, have a shared experience of the event, and have an adverse prolonged effect. Whether the result of a natural disaster (e.g. a flood, a hurricane or an earthquake) or an event or circumstances inflicted by one group on another (e.g. usurping homelands, forced relocation, servitude, or mass incarceration). The resulting trauma is often transmitted from one generation to the next in a pattern often referred to as historical, community, or intergenerational trauma. (SAMSHA, 2014) Reports discussing the issue of Native Hawaiians and involvement with the criminal justice system have frequently cited causal factors of the imprisonment of Queen Liliʻuokalani and the 1893 overthrow as historical trauma. For example, the Office of Hawaiian Affairs (OHA) in its 2010 report, The disparate treatment of Native Hawaiians in the criminal justice system stated, “The Queen’s wrongful imprisonment is one manifestation of a long genealogy of adverse affects” with “the imprisonment of Queen Lili‘uokalani in January 1895, mark[ing] the culmination of a hundred years of western imposition in Hawaii” (p. 23). A 2012 Native Hawaiian Justice Taskforce report stated: Native Hawaiians have suffered from severe intergenerational, historical, and political trauma from the loss of land, language, and culture. This collective trauma has negative economic, health, cultural, and educational

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impact on individuals, and often manifests itself in criminal activity. Any effort to reduce the number of Native Hawaiians who come in contact with the criminal justice system must include a multi-pronged approach to addressing this trauma. (p. 18)

Further, the report references the separation from culture as a causal factor for the overrepresentation of Native Hawaiians incarcerated. Terms such as ‘historical trauma’, ‘generational trauma’, ‘cultural trauma’, ‘loss of identity’, ‘loss of connection to culture’, ‘loss of self-governance’, and ‘disconnected from land’ were included in the report. These factors were linked: directly to the 1893 overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom which led to a shift in the economic and political balance of power. This resulted in loss of land, language, cultural practices, and decreased psychosocial well-­ being … describ[ing] this systemic historical cultural loss as negatively impacting the social structure and dynamic of families and thereby individuals. (Native Hawaiian Justice Taskforce, 2012, p. 3)

The US Census Bureau population reports described how “Native Hawaiians are the most under-reported ethnic group in the United States,” which is due in part “to the reluctance by some residents to fill out government forms” (in Hoover, 2009, p. A1). Wanda Liloa Hanson, a regional technician for the Census Bureau who is also Native Hawaiian, says, “Hawaiians have a bitter taste in their mouth. They have an aversion to government because of the overthrow of the monarchy. And that wound has not healed for many people. It’s a deep hurt” (in Hoover, 2009, p. A1).

 istoric Trauma (HT) and Historic Trauma H Transmission (HTT) The US government agency, SAMHSA, has working definitions of individual, community, and historical trauma, while in Canada, an extensive body of research and documentation on HT and HTT has been

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developed. In the Canadian context, to address historical trauma the Aboriginal Healing Foundation (AHF) was established in 1998. Canada created a self-governing agency to manage the distribution of a one-time grant of $350  million from the Government to address the legacy of physical and sexual abuse at residential schools perpetrated against aboriginal children. Through its extensive endeavours, grants, sponsored initiatives, and more, the AHF has developed models and resources on the topics of HT, HTT, and Healing. In particular, the models for Historic Past and Historic Present below (Castellano & Archibald, 2007) have been helpful to conceptually frame HT, and its application in the Hawaiian context.

Historic Past Castellano and Archibald’s (2007) model of ‘Historic Past’ can be depicted as thus: • Traumatic events impacting multiple areas of the physical, economic, social/cultural, and psychological, leading to • Complex Post Traumatic Stress Response, connecting to • Images of traumatic events embedded in social memory, connecting to • Suppressed and distorted memories passed to next generations, connecting to • Manifesting symptoms of maladaptive social patterns of shame, suicide, domestic violence, sexual abuse, neglect, resulting in • Intergenerational transmission of learned maladaptive behavioural patterns. (Adapted from Castellano & Archibald, 2007, Fig. 5.1, p. 70) The Historic Past Model depicts how HTT involves the functioning of Aboriginal peoples connected to traumatic events of the past and having implications and consequences in the present, both culturally and socially. Symptoms of social disorder in the present are not only caused by immediate trauma but also are connected to memories and images of traumatic past events being passed on from generation to generation disrupting adaptive patterns of behaviour and diminishing social efficacy.

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Historic Present Castellano and Archibald’s (2007) ‘Historic Present’ includes the following: • • • • • • • •

Enlightened events, connecting to Political, social, economic, literary, media, educational, connecting to Spiritual (awakening), connecting to Images of political and cultural events embedding in social memory, connecting to Suppressed and distorted memories brought to light, connecting to Social efficacy, connecting to Intergenerational transmission of positive identities and behaviours, connecting to Spiritual rejuvenation and cultural reclamation. (Adapted from p. 72)

The Historic Present Model depicts how HTT involves Aboriginal peoples in the present re-engaging in social and cultural ‘enlightened’ events, sparking revitalization, as well as simultaneously revisiting and reckoning the past, recognizing the connection of past traumatic events linked to the disruptive social behaviours in the present, and transmitting current positive identities and behaviours to move into the future. Moreover, the Aboriginal Healing Foundation, along with the continued efforts by the National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health, has developed a promising healing model that includes: 1 . Acknowledging the need to heal from Historic Trauma; 2. Incorporating concepts of Aboriginal values/worldview, personal cultural safety and capacity to heal within a personal and community environment; and 3. the pillars of healing of reclaiming history, cultural interventions and therapeutic healing (in Castellano & Archibald, 2007). John Dominis Holt, a poet, writer, and cultural historian wrote on the eve of the Hawaiian Renaissance in 1964, On being Hawaiian that

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encapsulates the essences of the Hawaiian experience, fitting into the references of HT, HTT, Historic Past, and Historic Present. He writes: “Hawaiians don’t care!” This had been a familiar theme in my growing up, and it was understandable to me in later years why this had become the theme song of so many Hawaiians. Disillusionment or rank disinterest are welcomed abstractions where physic pain is so great it is difficult or impossible to search for and to find comforting antidotes to the reality of loss and defeat. The broken spirit battens on shattered dreams. Illusion and despair combine to make bitterness attractive, or in reverse, the ceaseless search for pleasure—if not euphoria—becomes a passionately sought after way of life… [t]he pleasure seekers were of course up high on their particular highs … [w]e were … indifferent to the fact that so many of our people were poor; that too many of our young were in jail or in the place where teen-agers are locked up and learned how to become harden criminals… Times change. People change. There has been a vast awakening among us Hawaiians of the importance of knowing in some depths about our heritage; our roots. Young people now say we must know about our history, we must find our roots. We want to learn about this in our way, we want to be taught by our own people. (Dominis, 1964/1995, p. 8)

John Dominis Holt poetically wrote in the 1960s about conditions of Hawaiians, and a tremendous amount of data has been accumulated since then that provides information about the Hawaiian community through to today which helps us to conceptualize the Hawaii context with regard to HT and HTT. An ongoing research effort presented by Kamehameha Schools, a Native Hawaiian private primary and secondary educational institution, entitled Ka Huakaʻi, provides current educational and well-being statistical data about the Native Hawaiian people. In 2014, the fourth report was released. There are five categories of well-­ being named within the study: (1) material and economic; (2) social and cultural; (3) emotional; (4) physical; and (5) cognitive. The study takes a strengths-based approach that analyses data intended to assist those concerned with the present and future of the Native Hawaiian community. Review of the findings indicates that Native Hawaiians rank poorly in most socioeconomic and health areas (Kamehameha Schools, 2014). In reference to Native Hawaiian women, the data reveals challenges in the

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area of teen pregnancy, single-motherhood, educational attainment and scores, and incarceration. The categories of poverty, unemployment, low-­ income, child abuse, stress, and suicide reference Native Hawaiians generally. These factors are significant to understand as the potential causal connection with justice system involvement. To illustrate, several key findings of the study are provided below: • Teen pregnancy: The proportion of live births to teenage mothers was about twice as high among Native Hawaiians as in the state-wide population. • Single mothers: Native Hawaiian children were more likely to live in single-parent households than were the children of other major ethnic groups in the state. Native Hawaiians had the largest proportion of single-mother family households among the major ethnic groups in the state. • Education: Mothers with young Native Hawaiian children had the lowest levels of educational attainment relative to mothers of young children among the major ethnicities in Hawaii. Among mothers of young children, mothers of young Native Hawaiian children were the most likely to not have a high school diploma. Reading and math proficiency rates among Native Hawaiian students were lower than those of the other major ethnic groups in Hawaii. • Incarceration: 40% of the state’s female prison population is Native Hawaiian. • Poverty and public assistance: Native Hawaiian households had the highest rate of public assistance usage, and Native Hawaiian family households had the highest rate of poverty among the state’s major ethnic groups. • Unemployment: Native Hawaiians had the highest unemployment rate among the major ethnic groups in Hawaii. Native Hawaiians were overrepresented in the typically lower paying agriculture, labour, and production jobs and underrepresented in the typically higher paying professional and managerial positions. • Income: Native Hawaiian family households with children had the lowest mean income among the major ethnic groups in the state.

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• Child abuse and neglect: The rate of confirmed child abuse and neglect among Native Hawaiians was significantly higher than the state-wide average. • Stress and suicide: Thoughts and behaviours associated with depression and suicide were more likely among Native Hawaiian high-school students than among their non-Hawaiian peers. Among individuals ages 15–44, Native Hawaiians were more likely to commit suicide than their counterparts from other major ethnic groups in Hawaii. (Kamehameha Schools, 2014, p. 103) Much research has been done on women and incarceration. The Prison Policy Initiative is a non-profit, non-partisan think tank that produces research on mass criminalization; specifically, research on women’s growth in State prison. Sawyer (2018) reveals: • Many women on the social and economic margins of society struggle to survive outside of legitimate enterprises, which brings them into contact with the criminal justice system…The most common pathways to crime are based on survival (of abuse and poverty) and substance abuse. • Many women use drugs to self-medicate in response to victimization and trauma, which can lead to justice system involvement: “substance use among justice involved women may be motivated by a desire to cope with or mask unpleasant emotions stemming from traumatic experiences and ensuing mental health.” • Women are more likely to enter prison with a history of abuse, trauma, and mental health problems. • Most women in prison (62%) are mothers of minor children. • In a 2006 report, of the 73% of women in state prisons who had mental health problems, three-quarters also met the criteria for substance dependence or abuse, and more than two-thirds (68%) had a history of physical or sexual abuse. • In a 2005 study found that 98% of women in jails had been exposed to trauma during their lifetime; 74% had drug or alcohol problems. (paragraph 19)

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In Hawaii, a profile summary of the demographic characteristics of women incarcerated revealed similar data: • • • • • • • •

40%—Likely to be a woman of Hawaiian/part Hawaiian ethnicity; 60%—Likely to report childhood and sexual victimization; 80%—Has experienced some violence in her life; 95%—Has a history of substance abuse; 33%—Has a history of mental health problems; 60%—Is the mother of at least one child; 35%—Serving time for a felony drug charges; 36%—Serving time for property offenses. (Patterson, Uchigakiuchi, & Bissen, 2013; SAMSHA, 2012)

 he Trauma-Informed Care Initiative T at the Women’s Community Correctional Centre As the foregoing lists point out, incarcerated women experience tremendous life challenges. In 2006 when a top administrator assessed the inmate population at the WCCC, Hawaii’s only female prison, he reported that 30% were on medication for psychiatric disorders, 90% of their crimes were drug-related, and of those who were addicts, 75% had a history of emotional, physical, or sexual trauma. Observing the unique characteristics of the female inmate population, WCCC’s Warden, staff, and community supporters set out to create institutional cultural change at the women’s prison. Shifting away from a modality of punishment, the objective was to create a place of healing based on the ancient Hawaiian concept of pu‘uhonua. With the vision of creating a pu‘uhonua—a place to live a forgiven life, a place for transformation, a place that nurtures healing within the individual, family, and community, and serves to reduce recidivism—efforts at WCCC took on a community-building approach, using a mind, body, spirit, place perspective, and incorporated a traumainformed care framework. In 2009, a community-based participatory

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research project, the TICI, was developed to support efforts underway to operationalize the idea that prison could be a place of healing.1 One of the key learning outcomes from the TICI efforts was the high prevalence of lifetime trauma experiences of inmates at WCCC. Another was that Native Hawaiian women are disproportionately incarcerated, the effects of traumatic experiences throughout the life course, and the intergenerational transmission of the harmful effects of historical traumas are significant contributors to criminal justice system involvement. A pilot orientation program was developed to support women entering WCCC. Veteran female prisoners were selected to be part of the work-­ line of the TICI as peer leaders. The orientation program was ten weeks and included a series of orientation workshops followed by the administration of the combined trauma screening and trauma assessment measures for new inmate participants. The program, You hold the key to getting out and staying out: A transformative process of hope and opportunity, was named by the peer leaders. It was designed to: 1 . minimise further trauma to WCCC inmates; 2. create a true pu‘uhonua, or place of healing; 3. identify trauma-related problems that contribute to substance abuse, depression, anxiety, and other harmful behaviours; 4. create a behaviour management plan that minimises trauma triggers; and 5. identify appropriate programs for women to maximise healing and reduce recidivism. Twenty-four women began the programme with 21 completing it. All of the women reported trauma histories, with 81% of the women reporting physical and/or sexual abuse; 66.7% reporting physical and/or sexual abuse before age 18; and 28.6% reporting physical and/or sexual abuse before age ten. Sixteen participants self-identified as Native Hawaiian, amounting to 67% of the total women in the program (SAMSHA, 2012).

 For more detailed information about TICI at WCCC see, SAMSHA’s 2012 article, Creating a place of healing and forgiveness: The Trauma-Informed Care Initiative as the Women’s Community Correctional Center, and Can prison be a place of healing? The Trauma-Informed Care Initiative at the Women’s Community Correctional Center, by M. Patterson, P. Uchigakiuchi and T. Bissen, 2013. 1

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The TICI at WCCC operated from 2009 to 2012. While the research project at WCCC ended, puʻuhonua initiatives continue with resources and commitment provided by many, including the Pūʻā Foundation. Most notably, the contributions from the Pūʻā Foundation and its community partners, are: (1) several gender and culturally responsive, trauma-­ informed courses, activities, and resources offered at WCCC and in community with no cost to the government; and (2) the development of the Pu‘uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model that provides a framework to organise and operationalise female reduction efforts. Channelling resources to decrease the number of women in prison, especially Native Hawaiian women, is a wise societal investment. It would yield significant direct and social cost savings, measured not only in present financial terms but also in human terms now and for future generations.

Direct and Social Cost of Incarceration The cost of criminal justice system and imprisonment in particular goes beyond the resources required to keep a person incarcerated, a direct cost. The direct cost of operating a bed for an adult prisoner in Hawaii is about $66,439.00 annually or $182.00 per day according to the Hawaii Department of Public Safety (PSD) (PSD Annual Report, 2018). As of February 2019, PSD reports that the total female incarcerated population under its jurisdiction at all facilities, both jails and prison, is 675, and 271 (or 40%) self-identify as Native Hawaiian. At Hawaii’s only female prison, WCCC, the total number is 355, with 155 (or 43.6%) self-identifying as Native Hawaiian. In its 2018 annual report, the PSD reports that the total cost to incarcerate 675 women per year amounts to $44,846,325.00. Every action that alters personal or community welfare has a set of immediate costs, but most of the costs are a debit against future accounts and social welfare due at an unknown time in the future. The cost of one’s removal from society and confinement to prison sends powerful ripple effects into community in various forms of the social costs of incarceration. This cost includes significant losses to the prisoner and the prisoner’s family in terms of reduced quality of life, lost earnings while in prison, lost future

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earnings of the released inmate, lost taxes to the state on lost earnings, upfront criminal justice system cost, the cost of parole, foster care for the children of some prisoners, a host of other costs. (See below: Inventory of the elements of social cost.) According to Lengyel (2009), assuming an average thirty-nine-month stay in prison, the social cost that is triggered by that same incarceration amounts to about $600,000 per adult or $184,615 per adult annually. The social cost theory is estimate based on reasonable assumptions. The social cost on an annual basis multiplied by 675, the current number of women incarcerated, is $124,615,125.00.

Inventory of the Elements of Social Cost 1. Criminal justice processing: Arrest to sentencing; 2. Private (and public) legal costs of the defendant; 3. Efforts to avoid incarceration; 4. Pre-sentence investigation and assessment; 5. Cost of the prison bed; 6. Productivity; 7. Special services for drug felons in prison; 8. Value of childcare; 9. Foster care of children in prison; 10. Post-release supervision (probation/parole); 11. Training of probation and parole agents; 12. Training of other professionals who provide services to ex-prisoners; 13. Cost of administration of welfare payments to families of prisoners; 14. Costs to family of communication and support of prisoners; 15. Costs to family of providing housing to inmate’s children and to parent upon release; 16. Post-release decline in earnings; 17. Disutility (pain and suffering) of the prisoner; 18. Disutility (pain and suffering) of the prisoner’s family, includ ing children; 19. Depleted neighbourhood economic strength and quality of life; 20. Additional social, health, educational services required of the family of the prisoner; 21. Decreased future productivity of children of the prisoner.

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Social Costs of Incarceration for Children 2 2. Increased delinquency and criminality of children of the prisoner; 23. Decreased health of children of prisoners; 24. Decreased mental health of children of prisoners. (Lengyel, 2009) As mentioned above, Native Hawaiian women are 21% of the total female population in Hawaii, and 40% of the incarcerated population. To address the disproportionate representation of Native Hawaiian women incarcerated, a 20% reduction is necessary to establish parity. The current number of females that are incarcerated is 675, 20% of that number is 135. The current number of Native Hawaiian women incarcerated is 271, that number must be reduced by 136 (the calculation is 675, the total number of women incarcerated, multiplied by 20% equals 135, 271 minus 136 is 135). By reducing the total number of females that are incarcerated by 20% of Native Hawaiian descent, the social cost savings would amount to $24,923,025.00 (the calculation is 675 multiplied by 20% that equals 135; 135 multiplied by $184,615.00, the annual social cost, that equals $24,923,025.00). While the foregoing calculations are estimates in financial terms, reducing the overrepresentation of Native Hawaiian women incarcerated would have astronomical cost savings, and result in tremendous intergenerational positive impact that is priceless. It is not only saving money; it is saving lives.

 u‘uhonua: Creating Places of Healing Model P and Framework Incarceration is complex and presents complicated issues and challenges. There is a high cost in individual human terms, for families and the community. The government does not have sufficient resources to handle the problem alone; so much more is needed. Development of strategic approaches to create effective collaborative efforts can help. That is why the Pūʻā Foundation, along with its community and government

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partners, created the Pu‘uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model and Framework. The Model comprises a system of care for addressing the historical, community, and individual trauma that underlies justice system involvement. It is a holistic approach within a trauma-informed care framework to create pu‘uhonua, or places of healing along the continuum of care within the justice system, at any point in life ‘from twinkle to wrinkle’. The Model is designed to support collective impact and systems change, develop, and garner more resources for women in and exiting prison, and ultimately to reduce the overrepresentation of incarcerated Native Hawaiian women. The Model has various parts: three contextual, four components and two systemic.

Three Contextual Parts The three contextual parts lay out the context in which the Model operates and includes (see Fig. 10.1): 1. Criminal justice system and beyond Governmental agencies within the Criminal Justice System, as well as individual citizens, families, organizations, and others beyond those governmental agencies working together. 2. Systemic change and collective impact Changes on a systems level and diverse organizations coming together to solve complex social problems. There are six general factors that make up a collective impact effort—common agenda, shared measurements, mutually reinforcing activities, constant communication, and the presence of a backbone organization (Henley Brown, Kania, & Kramer, 2012; FSG, 2019).

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Fig. 10.1  Three  contextual parts and four component parts. (Source: Pū‘ā Foundation info-graphic brochure)

3. Community building and forming partnerships As a concept, community building refers to forming partnerships, utilizing and sharing one’s gifts, talents, and resources, and working together to achieve a common goal—like building a pu‘uhonua or striving to achieve community healing and well-being. A Hawaiian saying commonly used in this context is “‘a’ohe hana nui ke alu ‘ia”—no task is too big when done together by all (Pukui, 1983).

Four Component Parts The four component parts lay out the actual parts of the Model itself and includes (see Fig. 10.1):

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1. Puʻuhonua A pu‘uhonua is defined as a place of refuge, sanctuary, asylum, place of peace and safety (Pukui & Elbert, 1986). In the context of Hawaiian history and the ancient ‘kapu’ system, pu‘uhonua was a place, lands or person that was sacrosanct. For those who had broken a kapu (violated a law) and reached the pu‘uhonua, they were saved. In times of war, noncombatants and defeated warriors sought the sanctity of a pu‘uhonua, to be saved from death (Kamakau, 1991). 2. Trauma-Informed Care Framework As a concept, a trauma-informed care framework is one way to create a supportive and comprehensively integrated environment. It provides a way to understand trauma and its effects on all people, to recognize some of the central issues at the root of a person’s beliefs and behaviours, and to develop programs based on this knowledge about trauma. SAMHSA (2014) identifies the following basic principles of a trauma-informed approach: (1) safety, (2) trust and transparency, (3) peer support, (4) empowerment—voice and choice, (5) mutuality and collaboration, (6) historical, cultural, and gender issues. 3. Mind–Body–Spirit–Place Perspective This perspective takes into account the healing, health, and well-being of the whole person. It addresses all of oneself—MIND, BODY, and SPIRIT, as well as a connection to the PLACE where the person is. 4. S–P–A–C–E S–P–A–C–E is the acronym that identifies the work areas of the Model: S = Staff; P = Programs; A = Administration; C = Community (Inside and Out); E = Environment.

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Two Systemic Parts The two systemic parts lay the systems view of what the Model touches and includes (see Fig. 10.2): 1. B–A–T B–A–T is the acronym that identifies different parts of the Criminal Justice System and beyond it that the Model would come in contact with. B = BEFORE (family strengthening partnerships); A = AT (public institutional partnerships); T = TRANSITION (holistic partnerships). 2. Public–Private Funding Collaborative Model Sharing resources; sharing data. INPUT of funding sources that have a ‘mutual fund’ quality that will be shared through the OUTPUT mechanism that supports a collaborative approach to solve complex social problems and making a collective impact.

Fig. 10.2  Two systemic framework parts. (Source: Pūʻā Foundation info-graphic brochure)

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 ender and Culturally Responsive, G Trauma-Informed Efforts In 2012 when the TICI research project ended at WCCC, many initiatives continued, and others were added. The Pūʻā Foundation, in alignment with the Puʻuhonua Model, categorized all of its programs and projects as: prevention, intervention, transition and legacy (see below). For the most part, they correspond with the Model directly and follow along the continuum of care. The Ua Mau Ke Ea (UMKE) project, that falls under the program Legacy, is utilized in the Hawaiian Lecture Series, a project that falls under the intervention program. The chart below lists Pūʻā Foundation projects and each are described in more detail. All efforts are gender and culturally responsive, and trauma informed, with the aim to bring about Positive Internal Transformative Change. To measure effectiveness towards transformative change, data analysis and evaluations of three strategic initiatives are provided (Table 10.1). 1. Kids Day at WCCC: Providing activities for children, their moms who are in prison and the caregivers. A carnival-like setting for fun and family engagement is created. Six Kids Days are held a year. Pūʻā Foundation helps to coordinate two of the six, one in the summer and another at Christmas time, partnering with the Catholic Diocese and Oahu Going Home (OGH) Consortium. Kids Days have been conducted for at least 19 years. This event is referenced in the PSD 2018 Annual Report (p. 53). Table 10.1  Current Pūʻā Foundation—programme categories and projects P— Prevention (B–Before) (1) Kids Days at WCCC

I—Intervention (A-At)

T—Transition (T-Transition)

(2) Pre-transition Course (3) Hawaiian Lecture Series (4) Hōʻike Huliau (5) Resource Fair (6) Corrections Appreciation Day

(7) Oahu Going Home Consortium (8) Mercy House (9) Waimanalo Community Farming Project

L—Legacy (10) Ua Mau Ke Ea—Community Educational Resources

Source: Adapted from Pūʻā Foundation website—http://www.puafoundation.org

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2. Pre-transition Course at WCCC: After a gathering in 2013 of women who were in and out of prison and held as a follow-up to the TICI at WCCC, Pūʻā Foundation designed the course. The participants at the gathering overwhelmingly requested classes that would prepare them for reentry to community. The curriculum is 12 weeks, and the course is aligned with the Puʻuhonua Model and focuses on connecting resources to actual needs. It started at WCCC in May 2014 and at the Federal Detention Center, in January 2016. The US Bureau of Prisons has accepted the curriculum. This course is referenced in the PSD 2018 Annual Report (p. 53). See also data analysis and evaluations below. 3. Hawaiian Lecture Series at WCCC: After the TICI at WCCC ended in 2012, the Pūʻā Foundation started the series to incorporate Hawaiian history and culture, into the 12-week curriculum. The course is aligned with the Puʻuhonua Model and focuses on increasing ʻike (knowledge) Hawaii for positive internal transformative change of the students. The UMKE Collection of Community Educational Resources is used in the curriculum. This series is referenced in the PSD 2018 Annual Report (p. 53). See also data analysis and evaluations below. 4. Hōʻike Huliau at WCCC: Hōʻike means ‘to show, exhibit’, and huliau means ‘turning point, time of change’. This is an annual event that highlights transformation through women sharing their personal stories from the various courses or activities they have participated in at WCCC. There is a showcase of talents of dance, singing, music, and storytelling. Pūʻā Foundation organizes a community gathering and provides dinner before the show. The Foundation also works with the women from the Hawaiian Lecture Series to share their stories of what they learned and how they have transformed. The first year Hōiʻke Huliau was presented was in 2013. 5. Resource Fair at WCCC: In partnership with WCCC and community partners, the Foundation organizes the event to give the women of WCCC the opportunity to connect with community resources that can support them upon release from prison. The first resource fair was held in 2016.

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6. Corrections Appreciation Day at WCCC: May is Corrections Appreciation Month, and the Foundation along with OGH Consortium have the tradition to ‘Mahalo’ to thank correctional staff one day a year with refreshments—coffee, juice, donuts, lunch and cake, along with thank you notes. This tradition has been going on since 2012. 7. Oahu Going Home Consortium: OGH Consortium is a group of volunteers from public, private, and faith-based organizations with the mission to: “assist women released from prison transition into community life through employment, training, housing and appropriate supportive services”. Pūʻā Foundation coordinates and facilitates OGH meetings and activities as a part of the Foundation’s strategic efforts to connect identified resources to identified needs. OGH began in 2009 as an initiative of the Office for Social Ministry and Prison Ministry of the Catholic Diocese of Honolulu with a focus on working with the WCCC. In 2012, Toni Bissen of Pūʻā Foundation became the facilitator for OGH. Resources such as welcome home baskets, transportation, food, shelter, clothing, public benefits, and forms of identification (State I.D., birth certificates, social security cards) are provided or support is given to obtain the various items. 8. Mercy House, Transitional Home: The Mercy House is a safe, comfortable, affordable transitional house for women that are committed to staying clean from drugs and sober. It is a tangible resource and a collaborative movement providing transitional housing and support for women exiting prison and reentering the community. Pūʻā Foundation, the Catholic Diocese, parishes, community organizations, WCCC and HPA have collaborated to establish the Mercy House. The first resident was accepted December 2016. 9. Waimanalo Community Farming Project (WCFP): The WCFP has a theme, “Malama Aina a me Malama Kanaka” (care for the land and it will take care of you). The WCFP incorporates ahupuaʻa land management approaches, Native Hawaiian traditional and cultural practices and farming best practices. WCFP objectives include: Working together (Kākou), healing, health and wellness (Olakino maikaʻi) and service (Kōkua). Support is provided for women in prison and those reentering community through ʻaina based healing experiences and vocational skill building. The WCFP is set on eight

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acres of land and the produce grown is to be shared with the community homeless and hunger outreach. Women on the work-line from WCCC have been participating since 2017. This activity is referenced in the PSD 2018 Annual Report (p. 52). See also data analysis and evaluations below. 1 0. Ua Mau Ke Ea: the UMKE Collection: a textbook, the historical documentary and a theatrical film version, developed by the Foundation in 2011, are community educational resources on the political and legal history of the Hawaiian Islands. UMKE is a great example of helping understand historical traumatic events and its long-term effects on individuals and society. The resources chronicle Hawaii’s history through storytelling, interviews, archival images and Hawaiian-­language newspaper articles. It takes the reader and viewer on a journey from eighteenth-century Hawaii under the rule of King Kamehameha I, through the nineteenth century of the Hawaiian Kingdom to present day Hawaii. The materials are used at WCCC in the Hawaiian Lecture Series.

 ata Analysis and Evaluations of Three D Strategic Initiatives Data was analysed from the evaluations taken from three strategic initiatives: (1) WCFP; (2) Pre-transition Course; and (3) Hawaiian Lecture Series. These projects fall into the PROGRAMS category of “S-P-A-C-E” within the Puʻuhonua Model, and come under both A—AT, and T— Transition along the continuum of care. The purpose of the evaluation was to measure transformative change. All participants voluntarily enrolled in the course or activity. Filling out evaluations was requested but not required. Evaluations contained five questions with a numeric scoring scale. All responses were then categorized. The five questions were: (1) I learned something today that contributes to my health and wellness; (2) It changed the way I thought about Hawaiian history/culture/practices in a positve way; (3) After the session, I feel more confident about my sense

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Table 10.2  Evaluation results

Project Description Evaluation timeframe

Average # of participants per session Data collected

Evaluation results

Waimanalo Community Farming Project

Pre-transition Course

See above See above July 2017 to Mar. 2014 to 2018—WCCC (52 months) 2019 2016 to 2018—FDC (20 months) (36 months) 10 to 20 10 to 20 at WCCC 5 to 10 at FDC 650 responses analysed; 26 sessions Q1—4.94 Q2—4.75 Q3—4.94 Q4—4.92 Q5—4.94

860 responses analysed; 137 sessions at WCCC 296 responses analysed; 48 sessions at FDC WCCC/FDC: Q1—4.50/4.83 Q2—4.41/4.66 Q3—4.43/4.59 Q4—4.49/4.64 Q5—4.54/4.64

Hawaiian Lecture Series See above 2012 to 2018 (27 months)

10 to 20

443 responses analysed; 53 sessions Q1—4.10 Q2—4.23 Q3—4.08 Q4—4.14 Q5—4.15

of self and place; (4) I can use what I learned in my own life; and (5) This experience has contributed to my well-being. The Numeric scoring scale is ranked 1 to 5, as follows: 1 = Strongly Disagree, 2  =  Somewhat Disagree, 3 = Neutral, 4  =  Somewhat Agree, 5  =  Strongly Agree. Each response was categorized as: Q1—Learning Experiences; Q2—What Changed; Q3—Cultural Practice Experiences; Q4—Translate to Personal; and Q5—Transformative Experience (Table 10.2). Based on the evaluation results, compiling over 2200 responses, the average score fell between 4—Somewhat Agree and 5—Strongly Agree, with 75% of the responses scoring over 4.4. This has been interpreted as an indication that participants agreed that the activities they engaged in had a transformative effect. This is the first step toward healing of self, with the next step being connected to sustained resources to support life success after prison. See Table 10.2.

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Conclusion There is much work to do in the effort to reduce the overrepresentation of Native Hawaiian women in prison. Incarceration, the pathway to prison, involvement with the criminal justice system, poverty, race, mental/behavioural health issues, these problems are extremely complicated and complex requiring comprehensive solutions and collective efforts. There is an absence of integrated, inclusive, well-coordinated efforts that bring together community, public, and private resources. That is the focus of the Pūʻā Foundation and promising endeavours are underway, such as the growing use of the Pu‘uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model and Framework. Only together as government and community can there be collective impact for systemic change. Through community building and forming partnerships more resources can be leveraged to support female incarceration reduction initiatives. The Model can channel change. Embracing the words of Queen Liliʻuokalani—a prolific writer, composer and musician, who wrote a beautiful anthem while in confinement—can provide inspiration in the present. The song is entitled, Liliuokalani’s prayer—Ke aloha o ka haku—The Lord’s mercy. On the original music sheet she handwrites, “Composed during my imprisonment at Iolani Palace by the Missionary Party who overthrew my government” (March 22, 1895). Liliuokalani’s Prayer, Ke Aloha o ka Haku—The Lord’s Mercy O kou aloha no Aia i ka lani A o kou oiaio He hemolele hoi. Ko‘u noho mihi ana A paahao ia, O oe ku‘u lama, Kou nani ko‘u koo. Mai nana inoino Na hewa o kanaka, Aka e hui kala, A maemae no. Nolaila e ka Haku, Malalo o kou eheu, Ko makou maluhia A mau loa aku no. Amene.

Oh Lord, Thy loving mercy, Is high as the heavens, It tells us of thy truth, And ‘tis filled with holiness. Whilst humbly meditating, Within these walls imprisoned, Thou art my light, my haven, Thy glory my support. Oh look not on their failings, Nor on the sins of men, Forgive with loving kindness, That we might be made pure. For thy grace I beseech thee, Bring us neath thy protection, And peace will be our portion, Now and forever more. Amen.

Source: Lili‘uokalani, 1999, p. 1; emphasis added

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“Aka e hui kala, a maemae no” - forive with loving kindness, that we might be made pure; “Ko makou maluhia, a mau loa aku no” - And peace will our portion, now and forever more.  Trauma to transformation: Ka wā ma hope nā wahine o Hawaii, Women of Hawaii, our incarcerated sisters, look to the past to guide the future, living the example of our Queen today.

References Bissen, T. G. (2014). The Hawaiian situation: An overview of Hawaii’s people, politics, religion, spirituality, and culture, yesterday and today. In D. N. Hopkins & M. Lewis (Eds.), Another world is possible: Spiritualities and religions of global darker peoples (pp. 77–96). Oxon, UK: Routledge. Castellano, M.  B., & Archibald, L. (2007). Healing historic trauma: A report from the Aboriginal Healing Foundation. Aboriginal Policy Research Consortium International (APRCi). 111. Retrieved from https://ir.lib.uwo. ca/apric/111 Coffman, T. (2009). Nation within: The history of American occupation of Hawaii. Honolulu, HI: Koa Books. Dominis, H.  J. (1964/1995). On Being Hawaiian. Honolulu, HI: Ku Paʻa Publishing Inc.. FSG – Reimagining Social Change. (2019). Collective impact. Retrieved from https://www.fsg.org/areas-of-focus/collective-impact Hawaii Department of Public Safety (PSD). (2018). 2018 annual report. Honolulu, HI: Hawaii Department of Public Safety. Retrieved from https:// dps.hawaii.gov/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/PSD-ANNUALREPORT-2018.pdf Hawaii Department of Public Safety (PSD). (2019). 2/16/19 email to author from Hawaii Department of Public Safety Reentry Coordination Office  – Inmates identified As Native Hawaiian. Hawaiian Government. (2017). State of Hawaii data book 2017 – Table 1.29. Retrieved from http://files.hawaii.gov/dbedt/economic/databook/db2017/ section01.pdf Henley Brown, F., Kania, J., & Kramer, M. (2012). Channelling change making collective impact work. Stanford, CA: Stanford Social Innovation Review. Retrieved from https://ssir.org/articles/entry/channeling_ change_making_collective_impact_work

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Hoover, W. (2009, August 11). Census plans more accurate reading of Native Hawaiians. The Honolulu Advertiser. Retrieved from http://the.honoluluadvertiser.com/article/2009/Aug/11/In/hawaii908110346.html Kaistura, A. (2018). Women’s mass incarceration: The Whole Pie 2018. Northampton, MA: Public Policy Initiative. Retrieved from https://www. prisonpolicy.org/reports/pie2018women.html Kamakau, S.  M. (1991). Ka Poʻe Hawaii: The people of old. Honolulu, HI: Bishop Museum Press. Kamehameha Schools. (2014). Ka Huakaʻi: 2014 Native Hawaiian educational assessment. Honolulu, HI: Kamehameha Publishing. Retrieved from http:// www.ksbe.edu/spi/ka_huakai/ Lengyel, T. (2009, October 17). Everyone pays: A social cost analysis of incarcerating parents for drug offenses in Hawaii. Conference paper presented at Unlocking Justice, Ching Conference Center, Chaminade University of Honolulu. Lili’uokalani. (1990). Hawaii’s story by Hawaii’s Queen. Hawaii, USA: Honolulu, HI: Mutual Publishing. Lili’uokalani. (1999). Liliuokalani's Prayer, Ke Aloha o ka Haku  - The Lord’s Mercy. Honolulu, HI: Hui Hanai. Office of Hawaiian Affairs. (2010). The Disparate Treatment of Native Hawaiians in the Criminal Justice System. Honolulu, HI: Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Retrieved from: https://19of32x2yl33s8o4xza0gf14-wpengine.netdna-ssl. com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/ir_final_web_rev.pdf Office of Hawaiian Affairs. (2012). The Native Hawaiian justice taskforce report. Honolulu, HI: Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Retrieved from https://19of32x2yl33s8o4xza0gf14-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/ uploads/2012NHJTF_REPORT_FINAL_0.pdf Patterson, M., Uchigakiuchi, P., & Bissen, T. (2013). Can prison be a place of healing? The Trauma Informed Care Initiative at the Women’s Community Correctional Center. Hūlili: Multidisciplinary Research on Hawaiian Wellbeing, 9, (pp.  305–338). Honolulu, HI: Kamehameha Publishing. Retrieved from http://kamehamehapublishing.org/_assets/publishing/hulili/ Hulili_Vol9_11.pdf Pukui, M. K. (1983). Olelo No’eau Hawaiian proverbs & poetic sayings. Honolulu, HI: Bishop Museum Press. Pukui, M.  K., & Elbert, S.  H. (1986). Hawaiian dictionary. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press. Sai, K. (2011). Ua Mau Ke Ea Sovereignty endures: An overview of the political and legal history of the Hawaiian Islands. Honolulu, HI: Pūʻā Foundation.

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Sawyer, W. (2018). The gender divide: Tracking women’s state prison growth. Northampton, MA: Prison Policy Initiative. Retrieved from https://www. prisonpolicy.org/reports/women.overtime.html#drugs Sherry, P. (1993). An Apology to Na Kanaka Maoli - United Churches of Christ. United Church of Christ. Iolani Palace, Honolulu, HI. January 17, 1993. Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). (2012). Creating a place of healing and forgiveness: The Trauma-Informed Care Initiative as the Women’s Community Correctional Center. HHS Publication No. (SMA) XX-XXXX. Rockville, MD: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. Retrieved from http://www.puafoundation.org/wpcontent/uploads/2014/10/SAMHSA-WCCC-Hawaiian-TraumaBrief-FINAL.pdf Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). (2014). SAMHSA’s concept of trauma and guidance for a trauma-informed approach. HHS Publication No. (SMA) 14-4884. Rockville, MD: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. Retrieved from http:// www.traumainformedcareproject.org/resources/SAMHSA%20TIC.pdf U.S. Government. (1993, November 23). Public Law 103–150, S.J. Res., 19. Retrieved from https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/STATUTE-107/pdf/ STATUTE-107-Pg1510.pdf

11 Prison as Destiny? Descent or Dissent? Tracey McIntosh and Maja Curcic

Our Incarceration Is it the dark of me     laid across generations? Is it the name of me     passed through complex histories? Is it the loss of me      wrought by those with manifest destiny? Is it the shame of me      created by their acts of tyranny? To sit in these confines, A cell     Amongst cells, Within the abject lie         that being a prisoner is             the nature of me. T. McIntosh (*) • M. Curcic University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_11

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Prison and the Material Condition The poem above questions why wāhine Māori are disproportionately incarcerated in the prison system of New Zealand. It asks whether the answer to understanding collective incarceration can be found in responses to colonial, state and popular racist discourses or in the inter-­ generational transfer of inequalities through dual processes of deprivation and discrimination. It queries the state processes that seek to render whakapapa and cultural links as deviant through removal, dismissal, dislocation and alienation from our resources and distancing from our language, ritual and cultural practices. It interrogates the power relations and processes of oppression that are part of the neo-colonial project. Finally, it concludes with the lie that prison is an inevitable outcome and indeed the destiny of certain groups and a recognition that the lie has become normalised and naturalised. It illustrates the necessity of knowing why we are where we are. What are the trajectories that lead to lives of privilege or to lives of profound precarity? The Māori experience of colonisation is paralleled by struggles of Indigenous peoples in other settler states which have also been systematically brutalised and marginalised by state policies and practices, and where they also continue to be over-represented in prison populations (McIntosh & Coster, 2017). The settler states have sought to control Indigenous lives and to dispossess them of all resources in what Cunneen and Porter (2017) have called a process of ‘immiseration’ (p. 669). Moana Jackson recognises that [neo] colonising powers do not take challenges to their authority lightly. He asserts that “those who take power unjustly defend it with injustice” (cited in New Zealand Herald 2009). Jackson (2016) speaks of the settler states having a history of misremembering and misnaming. He claims that even the term settler is problematic as it “misrepresents the reality of dispossession” (2016, n.p.). Prisons are sites of both forgetting and the legitimation of the rights of the settler state.

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The Art and Politics of Decarceration Reflecting on the art of decarceration as both praxis and practice demands a politic of emancipation founded on the necessity of knowing our material condition; understanding our collective histories of dispossession and a profound knowledge of the devastation of structural violence including institutional and judicial racism. It includes a basic right to know why we are where we are. This means the right to have access to the knowledge of one’s condition. To know the social and material forces that place one at this time in history and to understand the ramifications of that for the collective. To truly know the consequenses of dispossesion or the accrual of privilege to be able to understand one’s place in the world. Decareration and prison abolition does not seek to replace incarceration with alternatives that are closely related to imprisonment such as Māori or Indigenous prisons. Instead it entails a rejection of the moral legitimacy of confining people in cells (McCloud, 2015) instead of addressing the social harms that reproduce harm. It is critical that a transformative framework embeds Indigenous ways of knowing, positive forms of social integration and collective security that are not organised around criminal law enforcement, confinement, criminal surveillance, punitive policing or punishment. For this to happen it must first be an act of imagination, informed by research, informed by the experiences of those who have harmed and those who have been harmed and a recognition that too often these are not discrete or separate groups. It means addressing the legacies of racism and colonialism and the need for a radical honesty in discussing and responding to these devastating legacies. It means to have a just society we must create just conditions. Mariame Kaba and Kelly Hayes (2018) argue that the current historical moment demands a radical reimagining of how we address various harms. This calls on us to acknowledge the harms our systems inflict and to create the kind of social and economic conditions that allow us to make choices under conditions of our choosing (Marx, 1979). Kaba and Hayes (2018) note that prisons confine people but they do not confine or eradicate, indeed they reproduce, the conditions that facilitate harms or the mentalities that perpetuate violence. They argue for a jailbreak of the imagination by seeing and understanding prisons for what they are and demanding the transformation of systems that perpetuate violence.

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Contextualising Violence Redress and response to harm must capture the entirety of the context in which something harmful occurs. In reflecting on physical, sexual, psychological, emotional, family and whānau violence we must ensure that we address and seek to redress state, colonial/neo-colonial, legislative, structural, political, economic, cultural, religious, institutional and collective violence. The latter are forms of systemic violence that often provide the context of the former. Legislative violence, for example, has both historical and contemporary cases where the impact on Indigenous peoples and present economic impoverishment is marked. The colonial state used legislative powers to alienate land and to punish (often by incarceration and other forms of detention) those original owners that sought to defend their lands and resources. Legislation has allowed the ‘legal’ removal of children from their families and too often has also attempted to remove their culture and identity. Violence is nuanced and can be both explosive and incremental. Climate change can be seen as the exemplar of slow violence (Nixon, 2015) but can also be useful in understanding the impact and violence of poverty, incarceration and other social issues. Systemic violence is often the locus of trauma and the precedent to economic deprivation that spans generations. Systematic suffering (McIntosh, 2002) comes from a deliberate, organised, methodical and planned delivery of processes that generate human and environmental suffering. The dispossession of land in one century creates the conditions for systemic racialised injustice in the next. Shannon Speed (2019), in drawing on the experiences of incarcerated Indigenous migrant women in the United States, has argued powerfully that while interpersonal violence, criminal violence and state violence are often understood as distinct dynamics, in fact “these forms [of violence] are inseparable, each bound to the other and mutually formative in the larger context in which they affect the women’s lives” (p. 17). If we are to reimagine justice, then we must know our past and where that past intrudes on our futures. C. Wright Mills (1959) taught us that neither the life of the individual nor the history of the society can be understood without understanding both. The sociological imagination involves us developing a deep

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understanding that acknowledges that any one’s personal biography, their individual narrative, is the result of historical processes that occur within a larger social context. Mills believed in the power of the sociological imagination to connect personal troubles to public issues (Mills, 1959). In understanding why we are where we are, we have to understand that different trajectories produce different outcomes. Cumulative privilege and cumulative disadvantage are likely to inform life chances across generations.

Lived Experience as Expert Knowledge It is critical that our understanding of the present condition is informed by those that have experienced incarceration having been incarcerated; whānau of those who have been incarcerated or by those who work with and support those who have been incarcerated. The wāhine Māori in the following sections draw on their knowledge, their experience and insight to identify and explicate complex social issues and enable greater understanding and more informed solutions. They recognise that the experience of removal, dismissal, disconnection and deprivation is both an individual and collective experience (Mcintosh & Coster, 2017). They weave their insider knowledge into the fabric of our (in)justice system. It is clear that wāhine Māori with personal experience can, once appropriately resourced and supported, devise innovative Māori-centred solutions. Privileging their insider status means that we are able to go beyond merely describing the prison world but move toward new creative possibilities in the art of decarceration and create new possibilities of transformative change—of intergenerational change—for whānau and communities. It is clear that they have first-hand experience of the many dimensions of violence and bring this expertise to their discussion.

The Violence Continuum Violence is one of the dominant characteristics of all forms of colonisation. Its shape and scale may differ, but it has been the intimate companion of colonialism since its systematic inception into the imperialist

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substance of the capitalist world system that became a dominant mode of accumulation in the fifteenth century (Arrighi & Moore, 2001; Quijano, 2000). Nancy Scheper-Hughes and Philippe Bourgois (2004) define violence as nonlinear, productive, destructive, and reproductive….Violence gives birth to itself. So we can rightly speak of chains, spirals, and mirrors of violence—or, as we prefer—a continuum of violence. (p. 1)

For example, there is a recognition that someone who has suffered violence as a child and adolescence may be more inclined to draw on violence as a tool when experiencing frustration or inter-personal conflict. They are also more likely to use it to attempt to control or dominate others. Violence creates the condition to generate more violence, both on micro (everyday individual or small group interactions) and within macro-structural levels. As an intentional exercise of force or power, violence perpetuates pain through either physical force (physical assault), psychological manipulation (fear, anxiety, shame), social violence (stigma, social isolation) or political oppression (from direct police/military violence to institutional violence). The latter includes various forms of structural and symbolic violence that are allowed to express themselves in social institutions, including the criminal justice system. Structural violence can be identified through practices that embed poverty for Indigenous peoples and systematic colonisation via dispossession of land and removal of the Indigenous economic base, culture and livelihood, together with the generation of sites of confinement such as youth homes, borstals, native schools and systemic deprivation of basic human rights (Mikaere, 2011; Stanley, 2016). Symbolic violence, on the other hand, appears as the result of systemic normalisation and canonisation of a dominant class taste to the degree where violence becomes misrecognised, taken for granted and seen as something normal rather than a form of violence and domination (Bourdieu, 1984; Bourdieu & Wacquant, 2002, p. 162). Consequently, this subtle violence becomes invisible even to its victims, especially because it colonises everyday life such as language, ways of thinking and even lifestyle. Thus, according to Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois (2004):

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[v]iolence 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. (p. 1)

Manaia and Anarina are both whānau members of people who are currently incarcerated. Their own life stories have been shaped by structural violence. They both grew-up in deprived areas and most of their closest family members have been incarcerated at least once time during their lives. In interviews, they both emphasised that jobs which guaranteed a minimum standard of living were largely unknown to their families, which, amongst other things, resulted in the low expectations expected for every child in their whānau. Life was going to be difficult and necessitated an early adoption of a form of social realism of their material condition and likely life trajectory as a defence mechanism to the precarity of life: Manaia:

Anarina:

We lived in a state house. I do remember moving quite a bit. Mom and dad were seasonal workers and I pretty much grew up with my sisters. Two older sisters were old enough to stay home and baby sit because pretty much everybody was ­working; but it was just seasonal work. Mom always did seasonal apples, packing, breeding, all of that, so good jobs like office jobs were unknown to our family. Not just to my immediate family but also to the whole whānau. What are the choices we have in the hood? You are either with the gangs or you work in a meaningless time-hourly job that only pays just enough for rent. Another choice you have is to steal and then go to jail, like, a lot of boys started to go to jail just because they could get meals and not worry about how to survive. We grew up with a mindset that that place [the prison] itself is like a normal, future institution for you, not university. The university was never even mentioned to us.

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Many members of Manaia’s and Anarina’s whānau have been active in gangs and Anarina herself grew up in a street with new urbanised Americanised-style street gangs that were established in New Zealand during the 1990s. In their neighbourhoods, the prison signified an unremarked and normal social institution. However, when a person sees the prison as something inevitable and unremarked, he or she comes to internalise oppression or the historical trajectory of structural violence as something that is inside (individualised) rather than imposed from structural constraints of the settler–colonial society. The person therefore lives and recreates social dispositions and behaviours that were imposed upon them and sees these as something that is typically ‘mine’ or Māori. This internalised oppression where a person accepts the prison, forced identities (‘the hood’) and other Western constructs such as patriarchy (performances of hyper-masculinity) as normal or typically ‘mine’, results in individualising and psychologising incarceration where the ongoing dispossession with its structural violence remains removed from the public and policymaking discourse. Thus, it is critical to emphasise the interplay of social issues and its consequences on the community—from poverty to the impact that incarceration has on children and their upbringing. Juan Tauri, who was interviewed as part of this project, emphasises that for “those from lower income sections of Māori communities, the imprisonment of one parent significantly impacts on the socio-economic condition of the whole family. It is even worse when single-parent women are going away [to prison], so children stay with grandparents or are taken into care”. Or, as Emma from an organisation that supports prisoners asserts: Our women in prisons; in the three years we have been in prison I haven’t met any that wasn’t a mother and that’s really heart-breaking for me, you know, as a mum it breaks my heart because you think about children. What’s their future? One of our girls has been in and out 15 times and she’s only 30 years old. Her story is that prison is the place where people accepted her and where she didn’t have to worry about food. Everything was supplied.

Terina has been in and out of prison multiple times. She considers herself a career-criminal. Nevertheless, as a child she experienced significant deprivation and in order to survive she had to steal food.

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When I was growing up I had nothing, like, we were poor. I didn’t want that my children would live like that. And everything that I have done was to survive and provide for my children, which is really no excuse, but I did it. It’s mainly surviving and I have pretty much survived by myself since I was ten … We had quite a nice upbringing as children until my parents divorced and then my mom turned to alcohol and she was just constantly drinking and never came home. We never had food, so we went out there to steal food. Me and my sister, we were, like, she was 11 and I was nine and we were pretty much mothers at that age. So for us to survive and feed our brothers and our family was to go and steal.

Terina’s experience is very similar to the experience of other incarcerated Māori women. The neoliberal structure of dispossession deprived them from unconditional social security or welfare, the benefit of compulsory education (being excluded from school at an early age is a shared characteristic of many of the incarcerated wāhine Māori) and opportunities to get a non-precarious job. The combined effects of the historical trauma of colonialism, inter-generational impacts and ongoing marginalisation forced Terina to steal food and other basic things. They became mothers in their teens and selling or distributing drugs quickly became their main source of income or, more correctly, the only way to put food on the table. Terina started to learn criminal codes and rules in order to climb a social ladder and provide her children with a lifestyle she never had.

Ongoing Marginality Life on the margin, both existentially and ontologically, therefore requires us to think about inmates sociologically, considering the historical trajectory of (neo)colonial dispossession and ongoing social vulnerability. The cycle of poverty and addictions not only signifies personal distress; it also critically strengthens the continuum of violence in households and

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communities. Fred, a former inmate and gang member, asserts that women are frequently dragged into addiction to drugs by their male partners—mostly because of their own addiction and their need to live that lifestyle together. They are often victims of domestic violence, becoming caught in the receiving end of the violence continuum. Because of the cycle of addiction and poverty, women therefore frequently stay in destructive relationships with their abusive partners. Violence is also strongly present in women’s prisons. Terina observes that fights are usually connected to things someone wants (from cigarettes and drugs to phones and food), but also to very minor triggers such as gossip: Terina:

Our prison was quite violent. I used to be quite violent towards other people too. There is a lot of people fighting in there, getting beaten up, stuff taken off them. Family would send phone cards and people would stand over for phone cards. Some people would even stand over for medication, shoes, like, if you have nice pair of shoes on, people would beat you up and take your shoes. Some people, you see, even get paid to beat people up, like, some girls had made statements about some people and they would pay people to beat them up.

We can also identify economic dependence of women on men or, broadly, the intersectionality of patriarchy and capitalism that has had a critical impact on Māori families since colonisation. For many Māori, particularly in urban areas, that has meant a significant change of family structure where whānau (extended family and a social institution where elders, both men and women, hold community respect) was replaced by the patriarchal social institution of the nuclear family where men become seen as the legitimate breadwinners, embody leadership and are the main voice in a small family unit usually consisting of a husband, economically dependent wife and their children. Ex-prisoners, family members and prison scholars all assert the issue of intergenerational impact of imprisonment on Māori communities; they argue that from generation to generation systematic incarceration has had a devastating impact on people’s lives (see Andrae, McIntosh, & Coster, 2016; McIntosh, 2011, McIntosh & Radojkovic, 2012; McIntosh

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& Coster, 2017). Today, prison scholars and organisations that help prisoners witness not only two but three generations of whānau in jails. Anarina observes that most of her whānau, stretching to three generations, has experienced prison time. Emma from an organisation that helps ex-prisoners, further asserts: We have mothers and daughters in jail. This became normal. You have mothers, daughters, cousins, nieces, grandmothers in jail. It’s amazing, like, the whole family is inside which is sad because when you think about those women you think about their children too. (Emma)

Because the prison is a familiar and normal place in the community, it consequently becomes a critical part of individual and collective identities. The prison starts to represent an inevitable part of whānau, signifying a social institution that is part of their primary socialisation and everyday life. The child learns the norms and values and associated behaviours that align with a stigmatised and prison identity. In other words, jail becomes identity, part of the culture, sometimes even part of whakapapa. With a carceral continuum that blurs the boundary between prison and a deprived area, people eventually accept both as inevitable parts of their lives. While prison is to be avoided and avoidance practices are learnt it becomes part of one’s lifeworld, signifying the social space where they have to be strong and know how to act and behave in order to survive. With the imaginary transformation of an uncomfortable and violent carceral continuum into a comfortable social space where they understand rules and regulations of the field (Bourdieu, 1980), where they know other people and have respect among them, the hyper-incarceration becomes accommodated and internalised. In other words, by accommodating and internalising the prison as something that they can relate to, the prison itself becomes the central part of their identity. They belong to the prison and the prison belongs to them. With other identities being subordinated to it (such as belonging to certain iwi, whānau or  seeing being  Māori as an ethnic identity  or cultural essence, to belonging to the nation or society of New Zealand), the person intimately accepts the prison as something necessary and taken for granted. Because of structural constraints of everyday life that continue to be produced by structural violence—from institutions of the

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state to corporations and media—many Māori have to accept rules of the game and get by in the violence continuum environment with a lack of hope. For example, Terina emphasises that when she first went to the prison she felt lost and scared; but as soon as she saw girls in the prison that she knew from the outside she became more comfortable: Terina:

Yes, I was quite scared at first but when I got there the girls made me feel comfortable, like, they welcomed me in there and it soon became like a family friendly orientated environment. I felt quite comfortable quite fast so I adjusted to it quite well. The second, third and fourth time I came in I already felt like at home. It was like my other home, so I was just like leaving my house outside to live in the house inside.

Because she did not need to worry about providing food and paying the bills, Terina says that it was even easier to get by in the prison than outside. Here we can directly observe the consequences of poverty. Violence was an everyday part of the prison, but she understood it as an inevitable part of their time: “I used to rebel and I was quite impulsive, like, I could take chairs and do stupid things”, says Terina. Namely, in a women’s prison too, reputation is everything and to get by you have to sense the game in order to gain respect. The same as in men’s prison, a female prisoner has to go beyond being comfortable to become accommodated within the dynamics of the prison (finding comfort in a place of discomfort). Terina and many others have therefore called their prison cell home or their whare. Observation of dominant relationships of incarcerated men over their women and children demonstrates that the issue of the violence continuum cannot be understood through the lens of psychology of criminal conduct and its mantra of correcting individual behaviour. Namely, this dominant approach in the criminal justice system systematically ignores the social and historical context. As habitus is not a static set of social dispositions but a dynamic process where identities are fluid but dependent on the rules of the field and structural inequalities in the wider social space (Bourdieu, 1980), it is even more critical to address rehabilitation programmes by recognising social harms and develop programmes for the well-being of prisoners, their families and the community.

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Lily George, interviewed for this project, hopes that state policies will include a recognition of traumatic experience by Māori—both in the past and present—along with education and discussion in the mainstream society about Māori-Pākehā relations in order to achieve an inclusive society where everyone can flourish: “It needs more than a piece of legislation or policy change. But there should be at least a policy that would recognise the trauma experienced by people in prison and that they would be given opportunities for healing”. She emphasises long-term support for when they come out of prison and community/whānau connections in order to heal trauma and prevent a new generation of Māori to be caught in the continuum of violence: Being in the prison itself it is a traumatic experience. It is not an easy thing to do and if you haven’t grown up in traumatic situations it is even more difficult. But even if you have lived it the prison can be really traumatic. So there is all the trauma that happened to women and men in their childhood and then being in the prison just adds to that. And when they come out they are struggling to find a job, and because it is the only world they know they go back into the same situation that brought them into the prison in the first place. There has to be recognition of trauma that ­particularly women but also men went through and provisions for healing that trauma. (Lily)

Anarina and Manaia emphasise the same issue, together with their own experience and observation that a woman who is supporting an incarcerated partner is often a person who goes through everything, taking care of children, standing by their men and encouraging them to get by. The issue Anarina emphasises is that this is often not the case if a woman ends up in prison. She has observed different examples in her whānau, including an example where an incarcerated woman was cut off from her whānau during her incarceration. Simply put, men are not as good visitors as women are. Nevertheless, the most common situation Anarina observes is that incarcerated men try to do everything for their partners and particularly children: “A lot of our men that are going to jail, like my uncles and cousins, they come back for their babies. They love their kids” (Anarina).

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Conclusion A prison identity is neither an ascribed identity nor a natural identity conferred by descent (Mcintosh & Coster, 2017). In many cases it is an identity formed under conditions of resistance and dissent. Structural violence and the everyday exposure to the violence continuum creates the conditions where a prison identity emerges. Prisons hold a moral and symbolic role—they reflect the state of the world in which we live. Prisons are architectures of control and one of the clearest expressions of state power (McIntosh & Workman, 2017). However, the violence continuum can be disrupted in the recognition that structural violence is made and can be unmade. Our societies are amenable to positive change. Radical honesty and radical action is necessary to ensure that we create a society where decarceration and prison abolition is possible. Recognising incarcerated women as experts of their own condition provides a platform to inform decarceration strategies. The privileging of this status and the need to engage with systemic racialised injustice means we may be able to move beyond simply describing a condition towards new creative possibilities for sustained transformative change that helps create and sustain community flourishing. This in turn opens the space for a transformational politics involving different individual actors, groups and communities to address the problems that have haunted criminal law administration and continue to haunt us as a society (McCloud, 2015). Decarceration and collective security is more meaningfully progressed by recognising Indigenous sovereignty, redressing historical injustice, building layered accountability and creating greater bonds of social solidarity that allow the flourishing of whānau and neighbourhoods through sustainable work and incomes. It means fully understanding the violence continuum and the generational impact it has had on Indigenous lives. It is to truly understand the historical and social conditions of why we are where we are. It means understanding how criminal conduct is constructed and how punishment regimes and life trajectories have unfolded. The challenge, then, is to address the structural issues of limited opportunities, racism, unemployment, marginalisation, poverty and re-think how we conceptualise crime, punishment, justice and ultimately how we understand ourselves.

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References Andrae, D., McIntosh, T., & Coster, S. (2016). Marginalised: An insider’s view of the State, State policies in New Zealand and Gang formation. Critical Criminology, 25, 119–135. Arrighi, G., & Moore, J. W. (2001). Capitalist development in world historical perspective. In R. Albritton, M. Itoh, R. Westra, & A. Zuege (Eds.), Phases of capitalist development: Booms, crises and globalizations (pp. 56–75). London: Palgrave Macmillan UK. Bourdieu, P. (1980). The logic of practice. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1984). Distinction: A social critique of the judgement of taste. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, P., & Wacquant, L. (2002 [1992]). An invitation to reflexive sociology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cunneen, C., & Porter, A. (2017). Indigenous peoples and criminal justice in Australia. In A. Deckert & R. Sarre (Eds.), The Palgrave handbook of Australian and New Zealand criminology, crime and justice. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Jackson, M. (2016). Moana Jackson: Facing the truth about the wars. Retrieved from https://e-tangata.co.nz/history/moana-jackson-facing-the-truth-aboutthe-wars/. Kaba, M., & Hayes, K. (2018). A jailbreak of the imagination: Seeing prisons for what they are and demanding transformation. Retrieved from https://truthout. org/articles/a-jailbreak-of-the-imagination-seeing-prisons-for-whatthey-are-and-demanding-transformation/. Marx, K. (1979). The eighteenth brumaire of Louis Bonaparte Karl Marx-­ Frederick Engels collected works. New York: International Publishers, 11, 99–197. McCloud, A. (2015). Prison abolition and grounded justice. UCLA Law Review, 62, 1156–1239. McIntosh, T. (2002). Death in the margins: Riding the periphery. Unpublished PhD Thesis, The University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand. McIntosh, T. (2011). Marginalisation: A case study. In T.  McIntosh & M.  Mulholland (Eds.), Māori and social issues (pp.  263–282). Wellington, New Zealand: Huia. McIntosh, T., & Radojkovic, L. (2012). Exploring the nature of the intergenerational transfer of inequalities experienced by young Māori people in the criminal justice system. In D. Brown (Ed.), Indigenising knowledge for current

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and future generations (pp. 38–48). Auckland, New Zealand: Nga Pae o Te Maramatanga. McIntosh, T., & Coster, S. (2017). Indigenous insider knowledge and prison identity. Counterfutures, 3, 69–99. McIntosh, T., & Workman, K. (2017). Māori and prison. In A.  Deckert & R. Sarre (Eds.), The Palgrave handbook of Australian and New Zealand criminology, crime and justice (pp. 725–735). Cham, UK: Springer International Publishing. Mikaere, A. (2011). Colonising myths – Māori realities: He rukuruku whakaaro. Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers and Te Wānanga o Raukawa. Mills, C.  W. (1959). The sociological imagination. New  York: Oxford University Press. New Zealand Herald. (2009). Māori resistance not terrorism – Moana Jackson. [Online]. Retrieved from http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/30691/ Maori-resistance-not-terrorism-Moana-Jackson. Nixon, R. (2015). Slow violence, gender, and the environmentalism of the poor. In P.  Nayar (Ed.), Postcolonial studies: An anthology (p.  515). West Sussex, UK: John Wiley & Sons Ltd.. Quijano, A. (2000). Coloniality of power and Eurocentrism in Latin America. International Sociology, 15(2), 215–232. Scheper-Hughes, N., & Bourgois, P. (2004). Introduction: Making sense of violence. In N. Scheper-Hughes & P. Bourgois (Eds.), Violence in war and peace: An anthology (pp. 1–27). Malden, UK: Blackwell Publishing. Speed, S. (2019). Incarcerated stories: Indigenous women migrants and violence in the settler-capitalist state. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Stanley, E. (2016). The road to hell: State violence against children in postwar New Zealand. Auckland, New Zealand: Auckland University Press.

12 Te Piringa Poho: Healing, Potential and Transformation for Māori Women Lily George and Elaine Ngamu

Introduction This chapter examines the over-representation of Māori women in Aotearoa New Zealand prisons through a postdoctoral research project, Ngā ara hou: New pathways toward whānau ora (family wellbeing) for Māori women with experiences of incarceration (2011–2014) Discussed are the changing ways in which Māori women have been perceived, moving from the powerful representations of womanhood articulated in our creation stories, to a diminished and devalued role in the new settler colonial society from the late nineteenth century. The impact of historical trauma has resulted in a multitude of negative responses, some of which have led Māori women on a pathway to prison, where Māori women today make

L. George (*) Victoria University of Wellington, Wellington, New Zealand E. Ngamu Hoani Waititi Marae, Auckland, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6_12

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up around 60% of the female prison population, despite Māori being only around 16% of the total New Zealand population. Major findings from the postdoctoral study are examined and include the recognition of the traumatic histories of the participants—and the majority of Māori and Indigenous women in prison—and therefore the need for healing from those traumas. A call is made also for recognition of the often-untapped potential held within imprisoned women, and therefore the transformation of people and communities that could be enabled if it was realised. Two frameworks for rehabilitation and reintegration programmes are discussed—Te Piringa Poho (George and Ngamu) and Hokai Rangi (Department of Corrections). Discussion is made regarding the bravery needed in decolonisation projects which examine the past and contemporary circumstances, in order to secure more hopeful futures for our women, families and communities.

The Power of Māori Women Whakapapa—our history and genealogical connections—is one of the principle concepts that comprise mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge), along with those such as tapu (sacredness/restriction), mana (prestige/ authority), whānau (family in its widest sense), hapū (sub-tribe) and iwi (tribe/people). While there may be tribal differences between definitions and applications of these concepts, there are also shared meanings for Māori as a whole (Walker, 2004), which provide an insight into Te Ao Māori (the Māori world). Many Māori believe that whakapapa reaches back in time to Io Matua Kore (Supreme God) and Te Kore (the beginnings of the universe, the great emptiness, the great potential). The potential inherent within Te Kore manifested in the forming of Papatūānuku (Earth Mother) and Ranginui (Sky Father), leading us into the dark realm of Te Pō. Here Papatūānuku and Ranginui begat many children who lived in darkness within the embrace of their celestial parents. One day, their child Tane Mahuta (God of Forests) glimpsed light (i.e. knowledge) through the armpit of his sacred mother, and thereafter longed for more. Eventually, along with other siblings, Tane Mahuta strove to separate

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their godly parents, enabling them, and therefore humankind, to move into the domain of Te Ao Mārama (the world of light and knowledge). Thus, do we learn that out of potential comes creation and transformation, and that along the pathway to new knowledge can lay the necessity for reconstructed realities. There are many lenses through which to consider Māori women in New Zealand today. Women perpetuate the intergenerational transmission of practical and esoteric knowledge. If we are fortunate, we grow with strong role models of women as our sisters, mothers, aunties, nannies and daughters. Māori women have become a strong and powerful force in Māori and national society. Yet there have always been strong and powerful Māori women, such as my tupuna (ancestor) Hineamaru, the eponymous ancestress of Ngāti Hine. During and post-colonisation, Māori women have contributed much to tribal and national society and have maintained that contribution today. As noted by Waitere and Johnston (2009), “By all accounts Māori women are noisy. They have historically spoken about a variety of things, across numerous contexts (locally, nationally and internationally) over a significant period of time” (p. 15). Today the number of Māori women in tertiary education has increased dramatically, we own businesses, have lead positions in education and health, and can achieve to a very high level. As Kathie Irwin (1995) noted, we have become visible, standing in the sunshine in our own right, rather than in shadows or “as reflections of anyone else’s image” (p. 5). The concept of ‘mana wāhine’ has become integrated into theoretical and methodological standpoints in Aotearoa New Zealand. Simmonds (2011) notes that: Mana wahine is often understood to be a type of Māori feminism. It extends Kaupapa Māori theory by explicitly exploring the intersection of being Māori and female and all of the diverse and complex things being located in this intersecting space can mean. At its base, mana wahine is about making visible the narratives and experiences, in all of their diversity, of Māori women. (p. 11)

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In a later writing, Simmonds (2019) states that “Mana Wāhine, to my mind, demonstrates the highly politicised nature of what are often deeply personal experiences for Māori women and whānau” (p. 156). Our stories about those experiences define us, and today we demand the right to tell our own stories, rather than having them told about us by those who cannot fully understand our experiences as we do. But changes post-colonisation has seen many of our women move from positions of worth with good health and wellbeing, to living lives of dysfunction and challenge. A small but rapidly growing number of Māori women follow pathways that lead to prison. They remain in the shadows, seeming to become stereotypical violent criminals who deserve whatever punishment society gives out.

Māori Incarceration In Aotearoa New Zealand, Māori women are the fastest growing prison population, comprising by 31st December 2018, 57% of the female prison population;1 Māori men are 52% of that population, with Māori youth (under 20 years of age) also rising rapidly and currently at 67% of the youth prison population (Ara Poutama Aotearoa/Department of Corrections (APA/DOC), 2019). Overall Māori are 52% of the New Zealand prison population—4996 people; a further 13,406 Māori are serving community sentences. Mental illness rates are high, as are drug and alcohol use, with low educational achievement and low employment rates. Eighty per cent of Māori in prison have had some contact with mental health services in the past ten years. At some time to the year ending 30 June 2018, 60% of Māori in prison had children, equating to 9400 children aged 0–17 years who had a Māori parent in prison in that year (APA/DOC, 2019). Māori have moved from being only 3% of the prison population in the nineteenth century, to consistently over 50% since the 1980s (Tauri & Webb, 2012). There are those who would have us believe this is because  Note however that some figures are over 60% of the female prison population for Māori women— see, for example, Deckert (2019, p. 2). 1

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Māori men are genetically pre-disposed to violence through a so called ‘warrior gene’. But as noted by Gillett and Tamatea (2011): The net result was to medicalize or individualize the higher incidence of criminal activity in indigenous groups and shift the focus away from the gene–environment interaction that underlies all genetically based psychological traits … to further marginalize groups in society already subject to disadvantage … added fuel to the fire distracting attention from the real basis of antisocial behavior and resulting ethnic injustice. (p. 41)

Some believe that most Māori children are born without hope of achieving anything positive in life, and are most likely to be on the ‘dole’2 and/or in prison like their parents and grandparents before them. But there is much more to this than what we see on the surface. Many of those children cited above are likely be on a direct or indirect pathway to prison. As noted by Parke and Clarke-Stewart (2001) “Incarceration is not a single or discrete event but a dynamic process that unfolds over time”, and there will be short- and long-term effects for children whose parents are incarcerated. van de Weijer (2018) writes that children who experience parental imprisonment are not only likely to die prematurely, they are also: more likely to engage in antisocial, violent and criminal behaviour and to be imprisoned themselves. Drug abuse, physical and mental health problems, school failure, and teenage pregnancy have also been shown to occur more often among the group of children who experience parental imprisonment. Because of these poor outcomes, these children have also been called ‘orphans of justice’ and the ‘unseen victims of the prison boom’ by various scholars.

Māori born between 1st July 1990 and 30th June 1991 are three times more likely to receive a custodial or community sentence by the time they are aged 21 years (APA/DOC, 2019). Factors contributing to this ‘prison pipeline’ are attributable to poverty in many cases, and also represent societal inequities, cultural disconnection, and other risk factors that  Government unemployment benefit.

2

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contribute to Māori incarceration (Durie, 2003; Gordon, 2011; McIntosh & Radojkovic, 2012; McIntosh & Workman, 2017; Workman, 2011). Quince (2010) ascertains several intersectional factors which enable the increased likelihood of criminalisation for Māori women, such as “racist gendered education […] [which] tagged Maori women for domestic servitude and unskilled labour [and thus] established a continuing cycle of underachievement and poverty” (p. 118). Deckert’s (2019) research examines the correlation between the very high incidence of childhood sexual abuse (CSA) for women in prison, noting the significance of having both biological parents living with daughters as a vital protective factor against CSA. However, “Imprisonment removes fathers from daughter’s homes. Yet, the link between male incarceration and girls’ risk of CSA remains unexamined” (p. 1). Given the very high rates of women in prison with often multiple experiences of sexual violence, this link is significant indeed. Deckert (2019) writes that: the disproportionate incarceration of Māori fathers in the 1980s exposed Māori daughters to a 5.5 times greater CSA risk. A theory of sexual structural violence through male mass incarceration may help explain high CSA victimization rates among Māori girls and incarcerated women. (p. 1)

Given that “the experience of CSA is a major contributing factor to women’s offending history and incarceration” (Deckert, 2019, p. 10), it seems extremely urgent to further examine this correlation between absent fathers and increased risk of CSA. Tauri and Webb (2012) talked about efforts to make policy changes since 1980s in order to decrease Māori incarceration and inclusion in the criminal justice system generally, but to date there has not been a significant change in those statistics. In fact, they are worse in some cases, such as those for Māori women. Tauri and Webb (2012) argue that “primary policy response largely revolved around the controlled integration of “acceptable” Māori concepts and cultural practices into confined areas of the justice system” (p. 17). But most if not all of these developments remained state-controlled, with a continuing emphasis on “psychological-based therapeutic treatments” (Tauri & Webb, 2012, p.  5). These seek to increase ‘Māori

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responsiveness’ to psychological treatments by the inclusion of Māori concepts and culture, rather than the creation—by Māori—of Māori-­ appropriate interventions that may draw from cultural as well as psychological and other theories. It is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that while there have been some successes, overall there has been little appreciable change to Māori over-representation. As noted by Tony Payne (in Robson Hanan Trust, 2010), while crime has an estimated cost of over $9 billion per year, it is difficult to quantify, as many intangible costs “lie in spaces that are hidden from calculators”. In her doctoral thesis about the ‘making of Māori hyper-incarceration’, Curcic (2019) notes that: the over-representation of Māori in the criminal justice system is not understood as an independent issue, much less a criminogenic problem, but as a wider social harm issue that has been in the making by various historical and structural processes of dispossession”. (p. ii)

Further, because “it is constantly in the making—constructed, experienced and normalised—and as such a political decision, it can also be unmade” (Curcic, 2019, p. ii). Given the far-reaching and devastating consequences of incarceration for the imprisoned as well as their families, communities, hapū and iwi, ‘unmaking’ Māori incarceration should be a priority for this and successive governments.

Postdoctoral Research As well as the multitude of literature now available on the over-­ representation in prison of indigenous peoples in general, and Indigenous women in particular, this chapter draws from a postdoctoral project funded by the Health Research Council of New Zealand called Ngā ara hou: New pathways toward whānau ora (family wellbeing) for Māori women with experiences of incarceration. The project ran from 2011 to 2014 and was led by Lily George with Elaine Ngamu as a research assistant and member of the advisory group (see George et  al., 2014). The aims included telling the stories of Māori women who have been in prison;

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and contributing to development of a health, education or reintegration programme for incarcerated Māori women. The reality is that to date, programmes in prison or in the communities have not worked often enough for Maori women, and the rates of re-offending are still too high. And too often, when our women leave prison, there is little on the outside to encourage them to create better lives for themselves. This was a qualitative project which used Kaupapa Māori Research and Participatory Action Research methodologies. There were two groups of interviewees—the first was 12 Māori women with experiences of incarceration: 11 had been incarcerated in the past, and the 12th has had 6 of her 10 children in prison. At the time of interviews, their times in prison were from 6 months to nearly 20 years ago, with prison terms from 3 months to 9 years. Ages ranged from 22 to 50-something years. In the intervening period to 2019, two of the women have reoffended and been re-imprisoned, lower than the current rate of recidivism for Māori, which sits at 50% for reconviction and 35% for reimprisonment within 12 months of release from prison (in comparison with 42% and 28%, respectively, for non-Māori) (APA/DOC, 2019). This is probably because of the higher rate than normal for tertiary education for the first group of interviewees of 25% (four of the 12 participants). The second group were people who have worked with Māori in prison or in our communities in some way. They were engaged at the policy level, in research, and some were from community organisations. This group included those such as Tracey McIntosh, Moe Milne, Gail Allan and Kim Workman. By interviewing people from these differing levels, we were able to gain a wider perspective into the issues. The third group of participants was the Mana Wāhine Advisory Group. This group of eight Māori women worked in health, social services and education, and contributed their experience and wisdom to the project while learning valuable research skills. Three were also participants in the first group of interviewees, and one was a participant in the second group. A main function of this group was to assist with two analysis hui (meetings) that took place after each round of interviews over three days. This widened the understanding of the data and imparted a richness of understanding that may not otherwise have been there.

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A final method of data collection was a healing wānanga (gathering) that took place at a marae (gathering place) with 33 Indigenous and one Pākehā women. All that provided an incredibly rich array of narratives to draw from to increase understanding of Māori women’s experiences of incarceration. The relevant findings we want to address here is that all of the women we spoke with come from fairly traumatic backgrounds. And then on top of that is the experience of imprisonment itself—often another traumatic experience piled on top of the others.

Te Kore: Stirrings of Potential Te Kore, Te Pō and Te Ao Mārama can be used as a framework for understanding and self-development. Te Kore arises with a life crisis when something is taken from us, when it can seem that life exists in a void. But within that void are stirrings of unlimited potential, where we can draw from those experiences that can oppress us to make choices which serve us. And by doing so we move into Te Pō, where we dream and plan in the darkness that nevertheless contains the soft light of ancestral knowledge. And by doing so we move into the realm of Te Ao Mārama, where understanding illuminates our pathways forward. Threads of silence reverberate in Te Kore creating more silence and diminishing rather than enhancing potential, if those occupying such a space do not receive the sustenance they require to move forward into Te Pō, and from there into Te Ao Mārama. In those who have experienced trauma, the river of wairua (spirit, soul) has been blocked. In a healing process, those blockages are cleared, and the river of spirit can rise to cover the landscape of the one who is being healed and bring new meaning to their life: Threads of healing Tumble down the years Seemingly separated by a lack of understanding A little thread here and a little thread there And the tears in the fabric of my life… Are sewn loosely shut.

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Then one day I’m sorry Forgive me Thank you I love you —and the healing threads converge Pulling tighter those fabricated tears And I realise I have never been torn I have always been whole. I’m sorry Forgive me Thank you I love you I love you…. (Lily George, 2016)

What is needed is a raft of programmes which have Māori cultural knowledge as their foundation while drawing from other understandings of the world, in health, education and self-development, that encourage the women to reach further into their potential on release from prison. TM undertakes voluntary educational work within prisons and noted that because she is not employed by the prison, she is “able to better explore a human relationship” with those she works with. She spoke of the “educational histories” of the young women as “sites of conflict and failure and disappointment and discrimination. Very few have happy memories around their educational system”. But she says: the best thing education [does] for us is it can allow us to deepen our human … relationships…. So if we look at prisoners as experts of their own condition, if we recognise and value them as experts … then it means we all become learners and I think that’s a nice role. (TM)

These educational interactions become acts of collaboration in which the young women are empowered, rather than having programmes imposed that speak to the heads, rather than the hearts, of these women. And while “[e]ducation is certainly not the sole answer to fixing this obviously broken system … it might be one weapon that helps us win the war” (Schuler, 2002).

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Te Puni Kōkiri’s (TPK) (2007) policy framework—the Māori potential approach—seeks the realisation of Māori potential through Māori succeeding as Māori. Their model is:



Matauranga ( Knowledge ) + Whakamana ( Influence ) + Rawa ( Resources ) = Te Ira Tangata ( Life Quality )



Mātauranga is about building knowledge and skills, which builds “confidence and identity, grows skills and talents, and generat[es] innovation and creativity” (TPK, 2007). Mātauranga develops choice, and knowledge of those choices. Whakamana is about building leadership and decision-making power. Rawa is about the development and use of the resources we have and create. These are what Te Puni Kōkiri (2007) calls ‘key enablers’ to achieving Te ira tangata or a quality of life where potential is recognised and pathways to realisation of potential are taken for granted. They are valuable concepts on which to develop health and education programmes that make sense to Māori, and which may actually help realise potential. Our wāhine who have been committed crimes nevertheless retain the right to secure a flourishing mauri, to achieve mauri ora (wellbeing). Given the power of women to influence families and communities, this then enables flourishing whānau. Kingi et al. (2014) posit six markers important to flourishing whānau: • Whānau heritage—knowledge of and connection to people, places and culture; • Whānau wealth—adequate resources to sustain life well; • Whānau capacities—factors needed to participate fully in society; • Whānau cohesion—strong relationships within and between whānau, with intergenerational transfer of knowledge; • Whānau connectedness—strong and quality relationships which lead to whānau empowerment; • Whānau resilience—having the skills to overcome adversity and adapt to change. (pp. 35–36)

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Although incarcerated Māori women are usually seen as individuals who have committed crimes against society, they are nevertheless embedded within whānau contexts that may require support and healing as much as the individual women. Flourishing individuals equals flourishing families, which can transform futures for our whole society.

Te Pō: Trauma and Healing As noted, a commonality of the women interviewed in the first group was a background of trauma that included experiences of poverty, cultural disconnection, violence, drug and alcohol abuse, and educational underachievement. For example, Uenuku was raised by drug-addicted parents who themselves were raised in an environment of domestic violence and gang involvement. By contrast, Aorere’s parents were well known for their social services in an urban community and she considers she was raised well although had difficulty relating to her mother; nevertheless, she had multiple experiences of racism and poverty-related issues, and a violent relationship eventually pushed her into the drug world, resulting in a conviction for drug selling and use. While stating that “my childhood was something that I mostly treasure with some awesome memories”, Ataahua also detailed the extreme violence in her household. Papatahi was born into a gang family and was sent to a convent school from the age of five years, where she was sexually and physically abused for most of her time there. There has certainly been a significant amount of suffering in the narratives of the women interviewed for this project. While that is not an excuse for their behaviour, a measure of understanding and compassion can be gained from knowing their stories and the pathways that led to incarceration, including the wider societal and historical contexts within which those pathways were formed. That understanding would not be complete without knowing and understanding the generations of trauma that have also contributed to current circumstances. In that way, we open the doorway to understand the potential also carried by these women, and therefore the opportunities for transformation of self and communities.

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Historical trauma theory is meaningful for indigenous peoples, providing an extremely relevant framework through which to understand the generations of loss and dysfunction, and the relegation of proud peoples to the margins of the societies within which they live. Historical trauma begins from a past traumatic event/s affecting a group of people; colonisation is the most obvious for indigenous people. These traumatic events become embedded in the collective, social memories of the population (Brave Heart, 2005; Denham, 2008; Faimon, 2004; Fast & Collin-­ Vezina, 2010; Walters & Simoni, 2002). In a sense we ‘carry our history’ with us in an internalisation of ancestral suffering, in a “cumulative emotional and psychological wounding across generations” (Brave Heart, 2005). The most exciting feature about historical trauma theory though is that its primary aim is to HEAL from historical trauma and its responses: Brave Heart (2005) developed a four-stage intervention to help people heal from historical trauma: 1 . confront our trauma and embrace our history; 2. understand that trauma; 3. [grieve and] release the pain; and then 4. transcend the trauma. (p. 5) From historical trauma theory then, we can draw new understandings that help develop new pathways. For Indigenous peoples, we often look to the past to understand the experiences of our ancestors and draw forth narratives that both give meaning to our suffering and offer hope to the present and future. One of the kuia (female elders) supporting this project stated: It’s also with all these stories [of tupuna], they are sacred stories … if we look after their stories really well and we’re doing the right things with them it has potential for [others] to heal because we are doing beautiful things with their kōrero/narratives and we’re trying to take it somewhere else. (RD)

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By understanding, we heal, and therefore improve the present, in order to build a stronger and more powerful future. As noted by George et al. (2014): “Historical trauma theory is about having the ability to name our pain, and create our own pathways to hope and healing” (p. 192). We confront our pain, and then determine how to deal with those confrontations. We determine it, not others. For those who enter and then leave prison, one way to ensure that they do not return through what often seems like a revolving doorway is to provide opportunities for healing, which is part of the key for unlocking potential. All the women I interviewed have very difficult stories. The vast majority of Māori women in prison have had similar stories. Therefore, for all these women healing is a necessary part of their journey to rehabilitation. One of the kuia stated that: when I’m thinking about these women in prison, if they knew from how far back they actually originated, it’s very, very powerful and I say this is where the karanga starts from…. It was already planted there in your DNA and it’s part of your whakapapa and you have that gift. (RD)

But most of our women in prison do not know the beauty and strength of their whakapapa; “they don’t know the privilege of being a Māori woman” (TM). TM said further that: If you’re in a framework where the fact of you being Māori puts you into a position that you were seen as inferior or discriminated against, in other words where racism is overt rather than covert, I think there’s a racism that is right through the system in New Zealand society.

So healing is necessary, and we believe that healing will be more effective if it comes from within a cultural framework that can speak to the hearts of the women. Healing is about “breaking down the bars inside us” (Toia, pers.comm., 2014). Valmaine Toki (2005) writes of ‘hara’ as “both a sin and a crime and there is no distinction between the two” (p. 176). Therapeutic jurisprudence, Toki defines as “a perspective that regards the law as a social force that produces behaviours and consequences” (p. 172); further, “The goal for both therapeutic jurisprudence and tikanga Maori

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is whakahoki mauri or restoring the balance through healing” (p. 189). While speaking of whakahoki mauri in the sense of rehabilitative or restorative justice, this could also be applied in the case of healing for Māori women in prison. They are very likely to have experienced hara (sin or crime) that affected their mauri (life force) and diminished their mana (authority, prestige). Restoring balance through healing from traumatic events carried in the minds and bodies of the women is a necessity for effective rehabilitation and for restoring the ability to dream good dreams and creating positive futures for the women and their families. While some may ask ‘why should we bother with women who go to prison?—we bother because they are part of our society; part of our whānau, communities, hapū and iwi. They are mothers, aunties and grandmothers, or possibly so. And as mothers—what kind of sons and daughters are they going to raise if they come out of prison worse than when they went in, with little hope for the future? What kind of hope can they pass on if they no longer have hope? This is not ‘bleeding heart liberalism’ as some might call it—it is practical action that is also spiritually directed. There are many concepts and values within Māori culture that direct us to care, to support, to teach, to learn and to do what we can to make the world a better place for those around us. This chapter calls for all levels of society to look beyond stereotypes to acknowledge, accept and support the development of potential within our wāhine. This requires openness, compassion and effective communication. So how we can use our traditional knowledges to help our wāhine (women) realise their potential by creating models of rehabilitation and reintegration which includes healing to break the silences of historical trauma?

Te Ao Marama: Reconstructing Realities It is undeniable that those in New Zealand prisons are there because of a crime committed against individuals, groups and/or society. But that fact merely scratches the surface of some very complex issues. For Māori this includes a history of colonisation, loss of resources, marginalisation in our own land, historical and contemporary trauma, poverty,

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underachievement in education and employment, and so on; much of which adds up to trapped lifestyles (Durie, 2003) and subtle or overt confinement. The terrible statistics of Māori incarceration represent “narratives of devastation” (Workman & McIntosh, 2013) for Māori men, women and children. They also represent the huge miscarriage of justice suffered by Māori for nearly 200 years. And what is also necessary to remember that despite their crimes, incarcerated people are also human beings. Perhaps one of the most important aspects of this book then, is in humanising the stereotypes. That is why we tell their stories. We hear often about the crime, the violence, drug and alcohol abuse and so on. But we hear very little about the potential these women carry, about the power and the positive aspects of their lives. These women have shown incredible strength in some very difficult situations, and just like the rest of us they have dreams for their lives. The reality though, is that without sufficient support, it is unlikely the majority of those dreams will be realised. By reimagining their humanity, we can provide the opportunity for incarcerated Māori women to emerge from the shadows and stand in the sunshine in their own right. What are needed though are effective policies and initiatives that provide tools to support change, growth and development of individuals, whānau and communities, and an understanding of the complexity of the task that we face. One of Nelson Mandela’s ‘Eight lessons of leadership’ was that “Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s inspiring others to move beyond it” (Stengel, 2008). If you view Māori women in prison as beyond hope, that is what you help create—hopelessness. If you view Māori women in prison as holding untapped potential, you can create ways in which latent talents can be realised. And it is vitally important to recognise the trauma, to provide pathways to healing, and support transformation of people, families and communities. An example of this can be drawn from the postdoctoral research in the story of Teina—she was the only one interviewed who considered she had a good childhood in a family who were financially stable. On the third interview however, she did admit that there was domestic violence in the home, but it was hidden. Teina’s parents owned bars and restaurants, so

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she was early into the bar scene. At 16 years, she moved to a major urban centre, where her drug use rapidly moved from the party drug Euphoria to methamphetamine (P) use. Shortly after that she was selling P as well as using it, and also used prostitution to support her habit. Teina has only one jail term for serious assault. The story she told was of how she used men as ‘enforcers’ for collecting drug money—she described them as “ugly old buggers”, but chose them for their ability to provide her with drugs and money. These men were methamphetamine users as well. One day the man she was with lost control and beat up someone severely. Teina was arrested as an accomplice to the crime and served a two-year sentence. As noted previously, ‘mauri’ is usually defined as the ‘life principle or life essence’ encompassing animate beings as well as inanimate objects and abstract concepts. Greenwood and Wilson (2006) describe mauri as “the living, irreducible energy that exists in that instant: the promise of growth” (p. 12). Pohatu and Pohatu (2011) consider that: Mauri holds a central place in informing Māori, how and why our lives take the form they do. It imbues Māori thinking, knowledge, culture and language with a unique cultural heartbeat and rhythm. Angles to that heartbeat and rhythm are positioned by Māori principles (take pū), valued, applied and interpreted in our activities. (p. 1)

There are several states of mauri, including mauri moe—a ‘sleeping’ life force impelled by some kind of hurt or trauma, often resulting in the person being isolated and withdrawn; when the transformative power of that person is inactive—“Mauri moe here indicates that change and challenges have yet to begin and be faced” (Pohatu & Pohatu, 2011, p. 5). Mauri Oho, according to Pohatu and Pohatu (2011) “is the point of being awoken from a particular state of mauri moe…. Something has happened to spark interest, a willingness to participate, make a commitment” (p. 5). George et al. (2017) note that: The task at hand is to provide interventions that can move mauri from languishing to flourishing, and which avoid or reduce risk (such as alcohol and drugs, cultural alienation or educational failure) while strengthening

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protective factors (e.g. personal resilience and social skills, self-­determination and social inclusion). Factors which impel transition to mauri ora include whānau cohesion, capacity, and capability; a strong cultural identity; and social participation. (p. 43)

Mauri oho is the catalyst stage which helps people transition from Mauri moe to Mauri ora (flourishing, wellbeing). Mauri Ora is “about knowing our human purpose … knowing our potential and having courage to turn that potential into ability” (George et al., 2017, p. 44), and thereby understanding the transformative possibilities of our lives. Resilience comes from understanding the cyclical nature of mauri, and our ability to move from Te Kore, to Te Pō, and into Te Ao Mārama. We can see, then, that Teina was initially in a state of Mauri moe, or an unconscious state of wellness. Life ‘happened’ to Teina, and she gave little thought to its efficacy or desirability. When we first met Teina however, she was moving into Mauri oho, or a more proactive state of being. She was beginning a creative arts degree and felt she was doing very well. While there were still challenges to leaving behind the experiences of the past, Teina felt she had gained enough understanding to move beyond those experiences; she now wanted to give them purpose and use them to help others. Six years later, Teina has achieved Mauri ora, or a flourishing life. She now has a supportive partner, a beautiful daughter, a great job and has completed a tertiary qualification as a drug and alcohol counsellor. Teina is also interested in natural healing remedies and makes and sells her own in a small cottage industry. A significant factor in why Teina was able to achieve healing, reach her potential and create transformation in her life, however, was the support she had from family, friends and community networks; something that most of our women coming out of prison do not have.

Taking Back Intervention For all the women in the postdoctoral study, the trauma experienced has meant that a measure of healing was, or is still, needed in order for them to make those dream pathways reality. Dreaming can mean “fully

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exploring one’s culture and traditions while building visions of the future” (Archibald, 2006, p. 28). One of the interview questions asked of the first group of participants was ‘what are your dreams?’ For Teina it’s about using her experience to help others. She says, “wanting to help others makes everything I’ve been through … gives it a purpose otherwise it just sits there and … nothing comes of it”. Aorere had an enforced stay in Odyssey House and said, “I promised myself…. I’ll never return to that again because I hated [it]—because they tip you upside down and you’re just nobody, you’re just a no-one.” Today she is a social worker in an urban centre working with Māori whānau. There were others too, who wanted something positive to come from their experiences. Papatahi wanted to be a mechanic, while Mereana stated she wants to work with monkeys on an island—she loved the stories of Jane Goodall. So, we talked about possibilities of zoology and making that dream a reality. Other dreams were as youth worker, social worker and psychologist. One wants to be the best grandmother she can be. At the analysis hui, we worked with Ngawaiata to create a dream pathway leading to a role as Children’s Commissioner. One of her most dearly held dreams though, was to have none of her children in prison, and therefore to have all of her whānau together for Christmas. So we have healing and education as two of the factors leading to opening doorways through which they can realise rather than waste potential. Mandela says that “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world” (in Stengel, 2008). As one participant said, we need to have: possibilities of transformative change…. We don’t want resilience to just to mean that we can live with a lot of shit … we shouldn’t have our young people surviving huge amounts of violence…. I’d rather [they] thrived than survived”. (TM)

A participant in a women’s prison art programme in Ohio said: I have had a feeling inside of me I have never experienced. It’s like a seed that has been planted, and I will be the one to see it grow and blossom”. (Inside/Outside—The Prison Project, 2014)

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In order to empower our women to nurture their own seeds of growth, we need effective programmes that speak to their hearts as well as their heads; programmes that enable Te Ira Tangata. In her interview, TM noted that: It’s a big challenge for us as Māori, about how we intervene. I always say that I think we want to take back intervention, the kaupapa of intervention because intervention has largely been used against us by State authorities; that just the word ‘intervention’ means dislocation, removal. Intervention is a kaupapa, intervention is a way of life, and that’s manaakitanga. That’s our duty to care for others. The way that we can resource the ability to intervene into our collective lives is difficult and will tax us, but I think that’s the thing. I think that it’s taking back intervention as ours, that we have not just a right to intervene, but there’s a necessity to intervene. (TM, added emphasis)

Participant CS noted that underneath the dysfunction and bad behaviour lies pain and trauma that people are medicating themselves from. But the ways in which we deal with that pain and trauma has to come from within our own understandings and from within our own culture. Any interventions and programmes that are developed must draw from appropriate cultural knowledge in order to speak to the hearts and spirits of the women, to whakahoki mauri, or restore the balance through healing (Toki, 2005). We have a culture that is rich and meaningful. We have people with the skills to create programmes that are rich and meaningful, that recognise the trauma that impacts on our women to produce destructive behaviours, and that can heal, release potential, and create transformation.

Te Piringa Poho Below is a model created from these three main findings of the postdoctoral project: 1. that Māori women in prison are very likely to have experienced trauma, before, during and after prison, and that this trauma is likely to have been intergenerational. Therefore, there is a need for culturally sited HEALING (in Te Kore) in order to deal with that trauma.

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2. that because these women are likely to have not achieved well academically, that they have not had many opportunities to stretch their abilities, our wāhine hold untapped POTENTIAL (movement to Te Pō) that can be encouraged and enabled through healing. 3. when healing has occurred, and potential is released to become ability, TRANSFORMATION (within Te Ao Mārama) is enabled. Transformation includes that for whānau, for communities, as well as for individuals (Fig. 12.1). Surrounding the individual is Te Piringa Poho, ‘the sheltering bosom’. In the interview with MM, she noted that many of our women who go to prison have never had Te Piringa Poho, so they have never known the true depth of aroha (love, compassion) and (manaakitanga) support a whānau can provide: …so a lot of these women, when they come out [of prison], where do they get their healing? Because as a consequence or maybe even prior to them being incarcerated, they’ve lost their piringa poho; they’ve lost their place of rest and refuge. (MM)

Fig. 12.1  Te Piringa Poho: Model of healing, potential and transformation. © Lily George and Elaine Ngamu

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In terms of an intervention, Te Piringa Poho is a network of people and agencies who can provide the kind of support that enables the women to thrive, rather than just survive. And lying at the centre of this process is Te Ao Wairua—the World of Spirit—that nurtures and supports these processes through spiritual sustenance.

Hokai Rangi In May 2019, Corrections Minister, Hon. Kelvin Davis, announced a $98 million package to fund a “whānau-centered pathway to tackle Māori reoffending rates” (Mojer, 2019). Minister Davis stated that “We are acknowledging that our system does not work for the majority of Māori,” and that rather than a new programme for individual prisoners, they instead seek development of a pathway that brings prisoners and their whānau together to create wider and more lasting change. Also included would be trauma and mental health support, enlarged rehabilitation services and housing transition support, and dedicated employment services. Launched as Hokai Rangi in August 2019, the five-year strategy intends to significantly reduce the number of Māori in prison from 52% down to 16%, the overall Māori population. A major attitudinal shift is that “prison staff will be expected to treat prisoners with respect and uphold their mana—like they are worthy of dignity and care” (McLachlan, 2019). Department of Corrections CEO, Christine Stevenson (in APA/ DOC, 2019), writes that: At the heart of the strategy is the concept of oranga, or wellbeing. All who participated in thinking about the strategy were clear that this must be our focus. Therefore, it is fitting that we have returned to the whakataukī [proverbial saying], Kotahi anō te kaupapa: ko te oranga o te iwi—There is only one purpose to our work: the wellness and wellbeing of people.” (p. 2)

The strategy “charts the path from ‘te pō’ (the darkness)—a world designed and implemented solely by the Crown—to ‘te ao mārama’ (the world of light)—a new space, co-designed with whānau, hapū, iwi, and hapori Māori [Māori communities], and focused on rehabilitation, support, whānau, whenua, and whakapapa” (APA/DOC, 2019, p. 30).

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Hokai Rangi seems set to achieve positive results at a rate previously unseen, although nothing tangible has started as yet. The changes proposed by Hokai Rangi calls for major systemic as well as attitudinal change, within society and the Department of Corrections. As previously noted, Māori hyper-incarceration “is constantly in the making—constructed, experienced and normalised—and as such a political decision, it can also be unmade” (Curcic, 2019, p. ii). Time will tell if Hokai Rangi will achieve its capacity to become transformative in deed as well as in word. Many are hopeful of its success.

Conclusion The resonances and synergies between this chapter and the previous chapters are easily noted. Indigenous women in North America, Australia and New Zealand have experienced similar processes historically, and contemporary circumstances are aligned. The mass imprisonment of indigenous women is but one impact of colonisation of peoples and lands that we live with today. The first title of this book is ‘Decolonising our futures’. All contributors, while providing critical examinations of a variety of factors relating to the mass imprisonment of Indigenous women in their lands, also provide overt and discrete signposts towards decolonising strategies such as programmes with culturally relevant foundations, initiatives that acknowledge and seek to heal the multiple responses to trauma both historical and contemporary, and the mere fact of critical discourse that challenges the status quo and asserts our rights to self-­ determination in our lands. Māori scholar, Moana Jackson (2011), states that decolonisation requires bravery, and that “there are many ways to transform once we identify what we need to transform, and we will each find our own way in which to do it” (p. 76). Decolonisation requires bravery because it is about acknowledging the histories of our respective lands and the myriad impacts those histories have had on our people. It is about “being willing to deal with it—with the consequences, with the impacts, with the emotions. It is about being able to look beyond the consequences and the impacts also, to see the strength and the beauty” (George, 2018).

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As Dennis Wendt and Joseph Gone (2012) stated, ‘The central goal of a decolonizing methodology is to uncover detrimental effects of European American colonialism and to assist historically colonized groups with preserving and reclaiming their distinctive cultural legacies, strengths, and institutions” (p. 164). Ani Mikaere (2011, cited in Simmonds, 2019) cautions however, that our bravery is needed because we sometimes have to challenge our own people: Courage to question genuinely held but deeply colonised assumptions about what it means to be Māori; courage to determine whether dubious interpretations of tikanga [customs and protocols] serve us well or whether they further an agenda that puts our long-term survival at risk; courage to confront those of our own who might have a personal stake in perpetuating such damaging interpretations. (p. 156)

Creating the future begins with examining the past and requires bravery in the present. Te Piringa Poho and Hokai Rangi are only two models or frameworks that could accrue significant and positive change for Indigenous women—and men and children, families and communities. A major point made by contributors to this volume is that Indigenous peoples have within their respective cultures, the solutions to the hyper-­ incarceration of their people. What is required also, however, is the acceptance and willingness of non-Indigenous peoples to co-create this alternative future.

Glossary Aroha  Love,

affection, empathy, compassion. family, society. Hapū  Sub-tribe; can also translate as ‘pregnant’, the space from which life emerges. Hineāmaru  Eponymous ancestress of Ngāti Hine. Hui  Meeting/gathering for discussion. Io Matua Kore  ‘the one without parents’, the ultimate God. Iwi  Tribe. Kaumatua/Kuia  Respected elder, usually in a leadership role. Kuia is a female elder. Kōrero  Speech, narrative, story, discussion, conversation. Hapori  Community,

12  Te Piringa Poho: Healing, Potential and Transformation…  Mana  Prestige,

263

authority. power and authority of Māori women, a critical theory— ‘Māori feminism’. Manaakitanga  Hospitality, care. Marae  Often used to describe the courtyard or the open area in front of the wharenui, where formal greetings and discussions take place. In this case, it is used to include the complex of buildings around the marae as traditional gathering places for the people local Māori people. Mātauranga  Knowledge, wisdom, understanding, skill, education. Usually used to denote that which relates to Te Ao Māori. Mauri  life principle, life force, vital essence—of a person, creature or object. Mauri ora  Wellbeing, ‘good health’. Ngā ara hou  ‘Ngā’ = the (multiple); ‘ara’ = pathway; ‘hou’ = new. ‘Ngā ara hou/ New pathways’ is the first title of the postdoctoral research from which some of this chapter is drawn. Ngāti Hine  A tribe in Te Tai Tokerau/Northland, the largest hapū of Ngāpuhi iwi. Papatūānuku  Earth Mother. Ranginui  Sky Father. Rawa  Resources, wealth, assets. Tāne Mahuta  Offspring of Papatūānuku and Ranginui, God of Forests. Tapu  Sacred, restrictions. Te Ao Māori  The Māori world, and all it contains. Te Ao Mārama  The world of light, knowledge. Te Ira Tangata  Life quality, human principle. Te Kore  Realm of potential being, The Void. Te Pō  The long night, the space of creation following Te Kore. Tikanga  Customs, protocols, correct procedure. Tupuna  Ancestor/s. Wāhi tapu  Sacred space/place. Wānanga  Place, experience or environment where important topics are learnt. Whakamana  Influence, empower. Whakapapa  Genealogy, genealogical table, lineage, descent, history. Whakataukī  Proverbial or significant saying. Whānau  Extended family, family group, sometimes used for members of a group with a common purpose, to include those who may not have any family ties to others in the group. Whānau ora  Family wellbeing. Also a major contemporary health initiative in New Zealand underpinned by Māori cultural values. Whenua  Land. Mana wāhine  The

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www.communityresearch.org.nz/wp-content/uploads/formidable/LCSRFFinal-Report-He-ara-toiora-Ngatiwai-Trust-Board-George-et-al.pdf George, L., Ngamu, E., Sidwell, M., Hauraki, M., Martin-Fletcher, N., Ripia, L., et  al. (2014). Narratives of suffering and hope: Historical trauma and contemporary rebuilding for Māori women with experiences of incarceration. MAI Journal, 3(3), 183–196. Gillett, G., & Tamatea, A.  J. (2011). The warrior gene: Epigenetic considerations. New Genetics and Society, 31(1), 41–53. https://doi.org/10.108 0/14636778.2011.597982 Gordon, L. (2011). Causes of and solutions to inter-generational crime: The final report of the study of the children of prisoners. Christchurch, New Zealand: Pillars Inc. Greenwood, J., & Wilson, A. M. (2006). Te Mauri Pakeaka: A journey into the third space. Auckland, New Zealand: Auckland University Press. Inside/Outside—The Prison Project. (2014). Past participants have told us…. Retrieved from http://insideoutside.homestead.com/ Irwin, K. (1995). Introduction—Te ihi, te wehi, te mana o ngā wāhine Māori. In K. Irwin & I. Ramsden (Eds.), Toi wāhine: The worlds of Māori women. Auckland, New Zealand: Penguin Books. Jackson, M. (2011). Hui reflections: Research and the consolations of bravery. In Kei tua te pae hui proceedings: The challenges of kaupapa Māori research in the 21st century (pp.  71–78). Wellington, New Zealand: New Zealand Council for Education Research. Kingi, T. K., Durie, M., Durie, M., Cunningham, C., Borman, B., & Ellison-­ Loschmann, L. (2014). Te Puawaitanga o Ngā Whānau: Six markers of flourishing whānau—A discussion document. Palmerston North, New Zealand: Office of Assistant Vice Chancellor, Māori & Pasifika, Massey University. McIntosh, T., & Radojkovic, L. (2012). Exploring the nature of the intergenerational transfer of inequalities experienced by young Maori in the criminal justice system. In D.  Brown (Ed.), Indigenising knowledge for current and future generations (pp.  38–48). Auckland, New Zealand: Nga Pae o te Māramatanga/ Te Whare Kura, Indigenous knowledges peoples and identities thematic research initiative, University of Auckland. McIntosh, T., & Workman, K. (2017). Māori and prison. In A.  Deckert & R. Sarre (Eds.), The Palgrave handbook of Australian and New Zealand criminology, crime and justice (pp.  725–735). Cham: Springer International Publishing. McLachlan, L.-M. (2019, August 19). Hōkai Rangi: A plan to reduce number of Māori in prison. Noted. Retrieved from https://www.noted.co.nz/

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currently/currently-social-issues/hokai-rangi-the-plan-to-reduce-number-ofmaori-in-prison Mikaere, A. (2011). Colonising Myths—Māori Realities: He Rukuruku Whakaaro. Wellington, New Zealand: Huia Publishers. Mojer, L. (2019, May 10). $98 million Māori pathway created to break reoffending cycle in Northland, Hawke’s Bay prisons. Stuff. Retrieved from https://www.stuff.co.nz/national/112613282/98-million-mori-pathway-createdto-break-reoffending-cycle-in-northland-hawkes-bay-prisons Parke, R.  D., & Clarke-Stewart, A. (2001). Effects of parental incarceration on young children. Washington, DC: Office of The Assistant Secretary for Planning and Evaluation, US Dept of Health and Human Services. Retrieved from https://aspe.hhs.gov/basic-report/effects-parental-incarceration-youngchildren Pohatu, T. W., & Pohatu, H. R. (2011). Mauri—Rethinking human well-being. MAI Review, 3, 1–12. Quince, K. (2010). The bottom of the heap? Why Maori women are over-­ criminalised in New Zealand. Te Tai Haruru: Journal of Maori Legal Writing, 3, 99–128. Retrieved from https://cdn.auckland.ac.nz/assets/auckland/law/ our-research/researchgroupsandpublications/tth-2010.pdf Robson Hanan Trust. (2010). Rethinking crime and punishment. Retrieved from http://www.rethinking.org.nz/ Schuler, P. (2002, April 4). Educating prisoners is cheaper than locking them up again. CityBeat. Retrieved from http://www.citybeat.com/cincinnati/article6662-educating_prisoners_is_cheaper_than_locking_them_up_again.html Simmonds, N. (2011). Mana wahine: Decolonising politics. Women’s Studies Journal, 25(2), 11–25. ISSN: 1173-6615. Simmonds, N. (2019). Never-ending beginnings: The circularity of mana wāhine. In L.  Pihama, L.  T. Smith, N.  Simmonds, J.  Seed-Pihama, & K.  Gabel (Eds.), Mana Wahine reader: A collection of writings 1999–2019, Volume II. Hamilton, New Zealand: Te Kotahi Research Institute. Stengel, R. (2008, July 9). Mandela at 90. The secrets of leadership: Eight lessons from one of history’s icons. Time Magazine. Retrieved from http://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,1821659,00.html Tauri, J.  M., & Webb, R. (2012). A critical appraisal of responses to Māori offending. The International Indigenous Policy Journal, 3(4), 1–16. Te Puni Kōkiri. (2007). Te Puni Kōkiri policy framework. Statement of Intent 2007–2010. Retrieved from https://www.tpk.govt.nz/en/a-matoumohiotanga/corporate-documents/soi-2007/online/4

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Toki, V. (2005). Will therapeutic jurisprudence provide a path forward for Māori? Waikato Law Review, 13, 169–189. Van de Weijer, S. (2018, February 13). Children of imprisoned parents: The increased risk of premature mortality. Penal Reform International. Retrieved from https://www.penalreform.org/blog/children-of-imprisoned-parentsthe-increased-risk-of/ Waitere, H., & Johnston, P. (2009). Echoed silences: In absentia—Mana Wahine in institutional contexts. Women’s Studies Journal, 23(2), 14–31. ISSN: 1173-6615. Walker, R. (2004). Ka whawhai tonu mātou: Struggle without end (Rev. ed.). Auckland, New Zealand: Penguin Books. Walters, K., & Simoni, J. (2002). Reconceptualising Native women’s health: An “Indigenist” stresscoping model. American Journal of Public Health, 92(4), 520–523. Wendt, D., & Gone, J. (2012). Chapter 9—Decolonising psychological inquiry in American Indian communities: The promise of qualitative methodologies. In D. K. Nagata, L. Kohn-Wood, & L. A. Suzuki (Eds.), Qualitative strategies for ethnocultural research (pp.  161–178). Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. https://doi.org/10.1037/13742-000 Workman, K. (2011). Chapter 6—Kim Workman: Rethinking crime and punishment. In V. Hutchinson & New Zealand Social Entrepreneur Fellowship (Eds.), How communities heal: Stories of social innovation and social change (Stewardship ed., pp.  53–64). New Plymouth, New Zealand: The Jobs Research Trust. Workman, K., & McIntosh, T. (2013). Crime, punishment and poverty. In M. Rashbrooke (Ed.), Inequality: A New Zealand crisis (pp. 120–131). Wellington, New Zealand: Bridget Williams Books.

Index1

A

Aboriginal peoples, 45, 46, 49, 70, 79, 106, 107, 133n1, 138, 141, 200, 201 urban, 138 women, 6, 7, 65, 71, 105, 107, 110n2, 112, 114, 118–121, 134, 137–139, 141, 143, 146, 147 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander, 6, 113, 122, 133–151 Aboriginal Children’s Commissioner, 144 Aboriginal Healing Foundation (AHF), 200, 201 Aboriginal Justice Advisory Council, 137

Aboriginal Protection Acts, 107 Abuse childhood, 116 physical, 63, 68, 139, 188 sexual, 109, 188, 200, 204, 206 Acculturation, 107 Activism, 3, 4, 23, 180 Adaptive patterns of behaviour, 200 Adversity, 161, 249 Advocacy, 17, 119, 158, 162 Affordable housing, 17, 18, 26, 94 Agency, 3, 18, 50, 95, 106, 115, 138, 143, 159, 199, 200, 210, 260 Alcoholism, 46, 57 Alienation, 91, 224, 255 American Indian, 7, 176–189 women, 7, 176–189

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s) 2020 L. George et al. (eds.), Neo-Colonial Injustice and the Mass Imprisonment of Indigenous Women, Palgrave Studies in Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Criminal Justice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44567-6

269

270 Index

Ancestral knowledge, 247 Ancestry, 58, 60, 105 Annihilation, 81, 182 Appropriation, 15, 83 Arohata Prison, 159 Aroha Trust, 156, 159 Assimilation, 5, 16, 61, 79–97, 107, 122, 182, 183 Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), 111–113, 135–137, 135n6 Australian Capital Territory Supreme Court (ACTSC), 116 Autonomy, 14, 84, 86 B

Balaang Gunya, 119 Bias, 112, 113, 140 Bidjara, 106 Biopolitics, 81 Biopower, 81, 91 Birri-Gubba Juru, 106 Boarding schools, 182, 183, 185, 188 Bodily integrity, 86 C

California Rehabilitation Center (CRC), 176, 177, 180 Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC), 64, 68, 69, 74, 86, 93 Canadian Civil Liberties Association, 69 Canadian Human Rights Tribunal, 89 Carceral continuum, 233 Carlisle Indian Industrial School, 183

Ceremony, 38, 56, 72, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188 Child protection, 114, 119, 120, 160 removal, 109, 110, 114, 115, 122 welfare, 66, 89, 90, 114, 115 Christian missionaries, 183 Circle Court, 116 Civilisation, 15, 107 Climate change, 226 Cognitive behavioural therapy, 105 Collective histories, 225 identity, 233 incarceration, 224 trauma, 198 Colonial apparatus, 6, 81, 91 control, 89, 90 falsehoods, 91 occupation, 83, 88 patriarchy, 141 Colonialism, 2, 5, 45, 48, 54, 56, 57, 59, 66, 67, 73, 74, 82, 86–92, 94, 95, 109, 117, 140, 180, 181, 187, 225, 227, 231, 262 Coloniality of power, 106 Colonisation, 7, 14, 16, 19, 73, 80, 83–85, 105, 107–109, 122, 140–143, 165, 181, 224, 227, 228, 232, 242, 251, 253, 261 Community flourishing, 236 Complex Post Traumatic Stress Response, 200 Connectedness, 138, 249 Contextualization, 54

 Index 

Control, 2, 4, 5, 7, 14–16, 18, 19, 22, 26, 39, 59–61, 72, 79–97, 106, 107, 114, 118, 120, 142, 149, 157, 182, 184, 186, 195, 224, 228, 236, 255 Courage, 57, 161, 165, 166, 186, 254, 256, 262 Creativity, 96, 97, 249 Cree, 43, 55, 86, 87 Criminalisation, 3, 5, 16, 21–22, 27, 28, 37, 38, 49, 50, 66, 71, 93, 103–104, 107, 146, 149, 180–182, 184, 204, 244 Criminal justice system, 6–8, 17, 18, 28, 36–38, 46, 47, 50, 70, 81, 82, 86, 91, 92, 104–106, 113, 115–117, 119, 121, 134n2, 161, 179, 181, 193–220, 228, 234, 244, 245 Cultural framework, 252 genocide, 70, 182–185 reclamation, 201 Culturally appropriate, 70, 92, 144, 145 support services, 139 Culturally based, 145 healing, 145 Culturally responsive, 194, 207, 214–217 Culture, 38, 41, 44, 45, 55, 57, 59, 73, 81, 82, 84, 85, 94, 96, 104, 105, 118–121, 133n1, 138, 140, 158, 159, 165, 181–183, 185, 198, 199, 215, 226, 228, 233, 245, 249, 253, 255, 257, 258, 262 Cycle of poverty, 197, 231

271

D

Decarceration, 8, 225, 227, 236 Decolonisation, 104, 164, 167, 240, 261 Deep colonising, 107 Degradation, 86 Dehumanizing, 60, 85, 179 Diggers, 178, 179, 183 Dignity, 104, 121, 145, 167, 178, 229, 260 Disadvantaged, 115 Discourse, 3, 4, 13, 14, 17, 21, 22, 24, 26, 27, 91, 92, 104, 121, 224, 230, 261 Discrimination, 17–21, 28, 63, 66, 69, 70, 73, 74, 87, 108, 111–113, 117, 118, 142, 157, 159, 224, 248 Disease, 60 Disempowerment, 114 Displacement, 41, 45, 49, 88, 94 Dispossession, 26, 27, 94, 95, 104, 105n1, 106, 108, 109, 142, 185, 224–226, 228, 230, 231, 245 Disproportionate representation, 209 Disrespect, 56, 84, 86 Domestic violence, 63, 66, 71, 138, 140, 142, 148, 180, 200, 232, 250, 254 Domination, 60, 95, 106, 228 Dual processes of deprivation and discrimination, 224 E

Economic deprivation, 226 Elders, 39, 40, 46, 49, 116, 119, 120, 142, 147, 158, 232, 251

272 Index

Emancipation, 3, 225 Empower, 91, 118, 119, 258 Enfranchisement, 60, 61 Epistemic violence, 107, 184 Epistemologies, 84 Eugenics, 90 Exclusion, 14, 15, 91, 121, 162–164 Exploitation, 59, 104, 111, 185 Extermination, 95, 178, 179

Genocidal colonial tactics, 6, 82 Genocide cultural, 110, 182–185 of First Nations, 18, 71 physical, 183 spiritual, 110 Global North, 105 Goenpul, 106 Governance, 55n1, 60, 84, 92, 96, 199 Group homes, 113, 114

F

Family dysfunction, 57 violence, 57, 111–112, 115, 119, 134, 140–144 Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), 70 The Fifth Estate, 86 First Nations, 18, 19, 39, 40, 54, 62, 71–73, 81, 87, 89, 90 First Nations Child and Family Caring Society, 89 Forced removal, 104 Forcible separation, 110 Foster care, 5, 63, 68, 89, 91, 208 home, 65, 114 G

Galambany Circle Sentencing Court, 116 Gang family, 160, 162, 250 rape, 159, 161 Gang-affiliated, 7 women, 7 Genocidal, 74, 181, 184, 186

H

Halfway house, 71 Healing lodges, 64, 70 Health care, 94, 112, 113, 163 Heritage, 44, 105, 140, 158, 202, 249 Heteropatriarchal, 84 High risk, 66, 113 Historical trauma theory, 251, 252 Historic Trauma (HT), 199–205 Historic Trauma Transmission (HTT), 199–205 Hokai Rangi, 8, 240, 260–262 Holistic, 104, 118–120, 210 Homelessness, 13, 15, 115, 139 Homicide, 88 Hopelessness, 68, 254 Housing, 4, 13–29, 62, 89, 94, 111, 138, 143, 162, 164, 208, 216, 260 Humanising stereotypes, 254 Human Rights Commission, 68 Humility, 75 Hyper-masculinity, 230 Hyper-social policing, 185

 Index  I

Identity, 47, 61, 72, 110, 120, 178, 185, 188, 198, 199, 226, 233, 236, 249, 256 Immiseration, 224 Imprisonment, 2, 3, 6, 8, 17, 21, 43, 63, 68, 70, 83, 88, 91, 96, 108, 115–117, 121, 133–135, 138, 139, 141, 143, 144, 151, 159, 162–164, 176–177, 181, 182, 197, 198, 207, 219, 225, 230, 232, 243, 244, 247, 261 impact of, 138, 139, 232 Incarceration, 1–6, 8, 10, 18, 21, 45, 48, 49, 54, 57, 58, 63, 67, 73, 79–97, 103, 113–114, 117, 118, 140, 141, 143, 156, 162, 163, 180, 188, 189, 193, 197, 198, 203, 204, 207–209, 219, 224–227, 230, 232, 235, 242–247, 250, 254 Indian, 7, 41, 57, 60–62, 66, 69–71, 73, 85, 92, 176–189 problem, 55, 92 status, 60, 61 Indian Act 1867, 60 Indian Indenture Act 1850, 184 Indigenization, 92 Indigenous children, 56n2, 88, 89, 104, 107–111, 114, 143, 144 communities, 5, 10, 49, 84, 96, 142 female, 64–67, 88, 113, 135, 136 men, 39, 61, 74, 80, 111, 112, 135, 136, 145 mothers, 109, 110, 142 offending, 95, 135, 136, 140 resilience, 6, 58, 73, 82, 96, 97

273

strength, 6, 75, 82, 96, 97, 104, 110, 117, 118, 121 women, 2–7, 10, 15, 35, 54–75, 79–97, 103–122, 134–150, 240, 245, 261, 262 world views, 81 Institutionally-sanctioned violence, 105 Intergenerational trauma, 6, 7, 72, 103–104, 134, 140, 143–144, 198 Internalised oppression, 230 Internalization, 85, 251 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, 69 Intersectional, 3, 135–137, 141, 142, 151, 244 analysis, 106 datasets, 136 discrimination, 145 research, 145 Intervention, 6, 24, 27, 103, 106, 111, 114, 115, 118, 119, 121, 138, 141, 142, 146, 201, 214, 245, 251, 255–261 Isolation, 47, 66, 73, 139, 145, 228 Iwi, 23, 147, 157, 158, 160, 161, 163, 165, 233, 240, 245, 253, 260 J

Jailbreak of the imagination, 225 Jingle Dancers, 97 John Howard Society, 68 Journey, 7, 36, 54, 55, 57, 59, 65, 73, 160, 162, 165, 166, 181, 217, 252 Judicial racism, 225 Justice Education Society, 67

274 Index K

Kamehameha Schools, 193, 202, 204 Kaupapa Māori Research, 246 Kimberley, 119 Kingdom of Hawaii, 195 Kingston Prison for Women, 86 Knowledge keeper, 56 L

Label, 17, 20, 25, 182 Labour, 14, 15, 18, 90, 104, 107, 111, 184, 188, 203, 244 Labrador Correctional Facility, 93 Land, 15, 59–61, 61n3, 83, 86, 92, 104, 105, 107, 108, 110, 157, 164, 179, 182, 185, 187, 194, 196, 198, 199, 216, 217, 226, 228, 253 Land claim, 61 Language, 4, 14, 18, 22, 23, 27, 36, 37, 57, 62, 83, 92, 109, 158, 160, 183, 185, 198, 199, 224, 228, 255 Leadership, 7, 74, 75, 110, 118–120, 155–167, 197, 232, 249, 254 Legal aid, 93 Longhouse, 58 Love, 20, 57, 59, 73, 75, 163, 165, 235, 259

Māori incarceration, 242–245, 254 liberation, 159 tikanga, 160, 166, 253, 262 Māori-centred, 227 Marae, 158, 160, 247 Marginalisation, 3, 4, 16, 28, 66, 71, 73, 155, 156, 159, 165, 231, 236, 253 Marninwarntikura Women’s Centre, 119 Mass incarceration, 1, 3–6, 10, 79–97, 140, 188, 193, 198, 244 Mass media, 85 Maximum security, 66, 186 Mentoring, 119 Métis, 39, 54, 55, 62, 64, 71–73 Military, 59, 61, 187, 195, 228 Minimum wage, 94 Mining, 108 Misogyny, 95 Missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW), 62, 63, 80, 88, 89, 96 Mission, 184–187, 196, 216 Mohawk, 97 N

M

Maladaptive social patterns, 200 Mana, 7, 167, 240, 241, 253, 260 Mana wāhine, 7, 155–167, 241, 242, 246 Mandatory minimum sentencing, 70

Narratives of devastation, 254 National Collaborating Centre for Aboriginal Health, 201 Native, 7, 8, 39, 60, 75, 83–85, 88, 93, 95, 117, 177–179, 181–186, 188, 189, 193–220, 228 prisoners, 189

 Index 

Native Hawaiian community, 196, 202 women, 8, 193–220 Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC), 63, 65, 67, 68, 73, 74, 80, 88, 89, 95 Necropolitics, 81, 82 Necropower, 81, 82, 94 Neglect, 57, 89, 94, 200, 204 Neo-colonial, 2–4, 226 project, 224 Neoliberal, 16, 82, 91, 231 society, 163 New Zealand, 1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 10, 13, 15, 16, 20–23, 26, 49, 145, 156, 158, 159, 161, 166, 224, 230, 233, 239–242, 245, 252, 253, 261 Non-Indigenous, 3, 50, 56n2, 62, 64–67, 69, 80, 85, 87–89, 111–113, 135–137, 146, 147, 262 Normalisation, 60, 228 Northern Territory, 108, 110, 112, 113, 116, 146, 147 Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER), 107 Northern Territory Royal Commission, 108 Nuu-chah-nulth, 54 O

Offender, 7, 43, 44, 66, 67, 70, 87, 115, 116, 134, 163 Oppression, 5, 14, 56, 58, 84–86, 104–106, 108, 118, 122, 156, 181, 184, 187, 224, 228, 230

275

Orphanage, 107 Overcrowding, 62, 65, 94 Over-policing, 93 Over-representation, 15, 16, 45, 48, 88, 113, 161, 196, 239, 245 P

Pan-Indian, 84 Participatory Action Research, 246 Paternalistic, 83 Pathologise, 6, 104 Pathology, 105, 121 Pathway to prison, 8, 219, 239, 242, 243 Patriarchy, 59–61, 74, 80, 84, 86, 141, 230, 232 Peace Policy, 183 Penal expansionism, 141 Petty crime, 64, 66 Pipeline (state care to prison), 243 Police, 17, 18, 23, 24, 28, 57, 59, 62, 63, 93, 103, 106–108, 114, 134n2, 135, 142, 183, 228 Politico-legal discourse, 91 Postcolonial, 106 Potlatch, 61 Poverty, 5, 17, 18, 25, 57, 59, 63, 64, 66, 74, 89, 108, 111, 138, 197, 203, 204, 219, 226, 228, 230–232, 234, 236, 243, 244, 250, 253 Power relations, 15–17, 224 Powwow, 39, 40 Precarity, 88, 93, 224, 229 Pre-colonial, 84 Prejudice, 112, 114

276 Index

Prison abolition, 4, 5, 35–51, 225, 236 Prisoner rights, 186 Prison identity, 233, 236 Prison industrial complex (PIC), 38, 48, 186 Prison Policy Initiative, 204 Processes of oppression, 224 Programmes, 8, 17, 42, 49, 66, 118–121, 138, 143, 145–148, 162n5, 176, 177, 206, 214, 234, 240, 246, 248, 249, 257, 258, 260, 261 Prostitution, 63, 255 Protection order, 111 Pūʻā Foundation, 194, 196, 207, 209, 214–216, 219 Pu’uhonua Creating Places of Healing Model and Framework, 194, 197, 207, 209–213, 219 Q

Qualitative research, 137–140, 151, 155–167 Quality of life, 70, 196, 207, 249 Quantitative data, 134–137, 151 Queen Liliʻuokalani, 194, 197, 198, 219 R

Race, 16, 18, 19, 21, 26, 92, 106, 117, 141, 178, 219 Racialised, 10, 14, 16, 27, 37, 82, 94, 95, 226, 236

Racism, 2, 3, 7, 18, 19, 36, 63, 65, 73, 74, 89, 104, 111, 179, 180, 186, 225, 236, 250, 252 Rape, 85, 112, 159, 161, 174, 185 Rations, 107, 183 Recidivism, 137, 146, 149, 205, 206, 246 Reconciliation, 70–71, 195, 196 Reconstructed realities, 241, 253–256 Re-entry, 150, 215 Rehabilitation, 1, 8, 74, 92, 94, 117, 145, 146, 177, 234, 240, 252, 253, 260 Rehabilitative interventions, 138 Reimagining humanity, 254 Reintegration, 1, 8, 74, 92, 94, 163, 240, 246, 253 Relationality, 121 Research, 8, 20, 21, 26, 28, 60, 65–67, 137–140, 142, 145–147, 150, 151, 155, 157, 162, 162n5, 195, 199, 202, 204, 205, 207, 214, 225, 239, 244–247, 254 Researcher, 114, 145, 147, 162n5, 163 Reservation system, 175, 182, 183, 185 Residential school, 56, 57, 61, 63, 65, 71, 81, 200 Resilience Project, 96 Resistance, 3, 4, 7, 36, 60, 94–96, 104, 118–121, 159, 165, 185–187, 236 Respect, 75, 84, 96, 145, 186, 232–234, 260

 Index 

Restorative justice, 4, 5, 35–51, 68, 253 Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), 62, 88, 89 Royal Commission into the Protection and Detention of Children in the Northern Territory, 108, 110n2, 113, 114 R v. Gladue (1999), 37, 38, 43–45, 47, 48, 67, 68 S

Sacred, 61, 84, 86, 96, 157, 240, 251 Safety, 3, 23, 40, 47, 56, 119, 144, 159, 163, 201, 212 Salish, 56, 74 Saskatchewan, 90 Savage(s), 60, 85 Segregation, 5, 19, 66–68, 73, 80, 87, 95, 96 Self-determination, 6, 14, 104, 118, 158, 159, 161, 175, 256, 261 Service delivery, 138, 139 Servitude, 107, 185, 198, 244 Settler colonial society, 230, 239 Sexual abuse, 63, 109, 188, 200, 204, 206 Sharon McIvor v. Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, 69 Silencing, 8, 26, 107 Sisters in Spirit, 88, 89 Skawennati, 97 Slow violence, 226 Smorhun v Devine (2014), 116 Social connectedness, 138

277

Social death, 81, 94 Social worker, 57, 257 Solitary confinement, 5, 66–69, 73–74, 187 Spanish Missions, 183, 184, 186 Spiritual genocide, 110 rejuvenation, 201 Squaw, 85 Stability, 57 Starvation, 60 State-sanctioned violence, 2, 19, 180 Stereotyping, 60, 74, 106, 112 Sterilization, 81, 88, 90, 91 Stigma, 4, 17–22, 28, 157, 163, 228 Stolen generations, 108, 109, 111, 121, 143 Stó:lō, 84 Strategies of annihilation, 81 Strengths-based approach, 120, 202 Structural racism, 89, 236 violence, 74, 225, 228–230, 233, 236, 244 Substance Abuse & Mental Health Services Association (SAMHSA), 197, 199, 212 Suffering, 57, 104, 105, 184, 208, 226, 250, 251 Suicide, 86, 200, 203, 204 Suppressed and distorted memories, 200, 201 Surveillance, 18, 24, 113, 141, 225 of Aboriginal lives, 141 Survival, 109, 159, 185, 186, 204, 262 Survivor, 57, 109, 111, 120, 141

278 Index

Sustained transformative change, 8, 236 Symbolic violence, 228 Systemic racialized injustice, 226, 236 violence, 3, 71, 73, 226, 228

Trauma Informed Care Initiative (TICI), 8, 194, 197, 205–207, 206n1, 214, 215 Truth, 45, 54, 58, 63, 72, 80, 96 Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC), 55, 70–71, 79

T

Teachings, 39, 55, 55n1, 56, 59 Te Ao Māori, 240 Te Piringa Poho, 8, 239–262 Te Puni Kōkiri (TPK), 249 Territory, 28, 39, 41, 55–57, 59, 60, 62, 73–75, 135, 195 See also Land Therapeutic jurisprudence, 252 Throughcare, 146–150 Tikanga Māori, 160, 166, 252 Torres Strait Islander, 6, 104, 113, 122, 133–151 Torture, 67, 183 Transformation, 8, 205, 215, 220, 225, 233, 239–262 Trauma community, 6, 197–199, 210 generational, 140, 199 historical, 67, 194–200, 206, 210, 217, 231, 239, 251, 253, 261 individual, 145, 197–199, 210 institutional, 6, 103, 105–115, 117 inter-generational, 6, 7, 73, 103–108, 110–115, 117, 134, 140, 143–144, 162n5 Trauma-informed approaches, 194, 212

U

Unemployment, 203, 236, 243n2 United Church of Christ (UCC), 195, 196 United Nations Human Rights Committee (UNHRC), 69 United Nations (UN), 13, 66, 67, 69 University, 61, 229 Urban Aboriginal women, 138 Māori, 16, 161, 232, 257 V

Vancouver Island, 55 Victimisation, 15, 27, 71, 88, 111–112, 116, 142, 144, 145, 204, 205, 244 Violence epistemic, 107, 184 family, 7, 111–112, 115, 119, 134, 140–144 institutional, 104, 105, 114, 225, 226, 228 of poverty, 226 Violent victimisation, 142 Voting right, 60 Vulnerability, 88, 93, 231

 Index  W

Wāhine Māori, 161, 164, 167, 224, 227, 231 Waitangi Tribunal, 161, 161n4 Walk4Justice, 89 Waminda South Coast Women’s Health and Welfare Aboriginal Corporation, 118 Ward (of the state), 139 Welfare, 6, 16, 57, 89, 107, 110, 113–115, 118, 141, 165, 177, 207, 208, 231 system, 66, 89, 90 Welfare institutions, 141 Well-being, 6, 118, 119, 198, 199, 202, 211, 212, 234

279

Whakapapa, 158, 159, 162, 164, 224, 233, 240, 252, 260 Whānau, 3, 157, 158, 160, 161, 163, 165, 226, 227, 229, 230, 232, 233, 235, 236, 239, 240, 242, 245, 249, 250, 253, 254, 256, 257, 259, 260 Whanaungatanga, 159, 160 Wiradjuri, 112 Women’s Community Correctional Center (WCCC), 8, 194, 197, 205–207, 206n1, 214–217 Y

Yamatji, 114 Yuin, 121