As a white Anglican Canadian, I went to the four days of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in
I came here believing that I knew about residential schools because I had studied this history as part of my education. But I didn’t know, and will probably never really know. The films, displays, stories, and even apologies that made up my experience here showed me that I did not understand. The anger with which people spoke about reconciliation at the town hall was a crushing reminder of my, and our, incomprehension. How can we ever grasp what we have done? The whole truth, while it must be told and listened to, is too large and painful to ever be really understood by people who have not lived it.
I came here believing that I knew what it would be like to listen to the stories of trauma, because I have sat and listened to stories from other kinds of survivors. But it wasn’t true: I did not fathom what it would be like. I have never listened to someone’s story before while sitting in the shoes of the perpetrator. It’s amazing the difference this made. This strange reversal made me feel more closed-off, more isolated from their stories, less automatically sympathetic. I think, as human beings, we have this impulse toward protecting ourselves from blame and from guilt by becoming detached and indifferent because we don’t want to feel those feelings, the shame and burden of our responsibility. I also believe that I and others like me have a responsibility to push past that and into the painful empathy that you will never fully leave behind. It is easy enough to feel the suffering of a victim, and infinitely harder to bear witness to your own horrific actions.
Although I was there for four days, and have committed to listening to statements given at the Commissioners panel while I was not present, I found that there wasn’t enough time to listen to the stories. If I live a hundred years, there would not be enough time.
There were moments when I wondered if I hadn’t made some kind of horrible mistake, if I was in the wrong place altogether, if I had any right to be part of these stories and expressions. After the screening of the film We Were Children I attended on Friday morning, almost all the white people left the room immediately, even though the animators said there was going to be a time for reflection afterward and had asked people to remain. We did not have a discussion, and no one talked: instead, there was a violent and heartbreaking outpouring of emotions from some of the participants. The animators called in traditional healers to try and dispel the energy in the room, and those few outsiders who had inexplicably stayed behind found ourselves holding hands with strangers in the midst of their grief. I felt like an intruder witnessing something intimate which was not meant for me. It was intensely emotionally disturbing, more so than the evidence the full room had witnessed. But ultimately, if I am unwilling to stand with people cracking apart from the burden of their memories then I haven’t really received the stories.
The pain and sadness, the hurt and anger and fear, the stories: we are called to listen and receive because as Church and country we have a moral responsibility to know and face up to the truth of our history and the realities it creates today. The Commission is about truth in its collecting of testimonies and evidence, in its mandate to spread this knowledge to the people who are responsible yet largely unaware of the realities lived by First Nations peoples in this country. This Commission is about healing in the sense that telling one’s story and being heard is an important part of the journey toward wholeness. It is a step on the very long path of reconciliation, a journey that will never begin without these first steps. But as many participants have brought up, it is not about reconciliation because reconciliation will not happen because of truth, listening, or apologies, though they are all part of it. Reconciliation demands that we take action to address the issues and inequities facing First Nations as a result of the devastation that we have wreaked on them. It is not only for us that we need to do it but, above all, for the people who are coming after.
What the Commission has manifestly failed to do is bring ordinary white people and First Nations people together. As a random, unimportant white attendee, how many Native Americans did you have a conversation with? We were all in the same crowded venue but almost no one spoke with people they didn’t already know. We still aren’t actually having relationships, and to be honest I have no idea how to fix it. Maybe it just has to come later.
The TRC was also uplifting. It brought forward the courage and strength of First Nations peoples in the face of wrongs that can never be righted. A wealth of vibrant, living cultures were on display. Our hosts were humble and gracious and generous. At the end of the last day there was a Birthday celebration for everyone who hadn’t celebrated their Birthday because they were in residential school, some of whom had not even known when it was. We sang Happy Birthday in many languages, in a way reinforcing for us just how deeply Canadian culture has infiltrated Native American cultures. Everyone got a glowstick. Everyone got a cupcake. Everyone got a Birthday card made by a child. Everyone was included. Our hosts generously welcomed all of us to celebrate with them, including those of us who could never have earned the right to attend. It was humbling and beautiful. It is with this spirit of humility that we are honoured to receive all we have been given by the survivors, their families, and their communities.
What the Truth and Reconciliation Commission asks us to do is never forget the stories, the courage of the people who have shared their gifts with us, by calling us to carry forward what we have witnessed in our deeds and to cherish the discomforting guilt. During the
“For the child taken,
For the parent left behind.”
For the child today,
And for the children who are coming.
Thoughtful, moving reflections. I think one thing needs to be added, though. I'm not sure that we as individuals should think of ourselves as the perpetrators of what happened in the past at the residential schools (especially not if you are twenty-something: you weren't even born.) But I am sure that we should think of ourselves as implicated in injustice that our indigenous people continue to experience in the present. Our government still underfunds schools for indigenous students. Our church still provides limited support for the parishes of the north. Our press still prints accounts that are (deliberately?) misleading. I am writing this in Nunavik, where this afternoon the Inuit Culture teacher told me that her budget, for the whole school, was one hundred dollars a month. That comes roughly to ten dollars per student, on which she is supposed to keep Inuit culture alive. Her expenses exceed this amount for fabric alone, since the sewing of traditional garments is part of the culture curriculum. And when it comes to academics, the reading programme that would be best suited to this community also costs more than the board can afford. Tomorrow night I will attend the midweek Anglican Church service that takes place in most Nunavik communities. Probably it will be led by a lay reader, because most communities cannot afford a priest. Mental health support, also sorely needed, is sparsely funded. Elders who could make a very great contribution in this area are still overlooked by mainstream organizations, still mostly run by white people from the South. These things are happening now, on our watch. We need to respond.
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