Marianopolis Literary Magazine SPECIAL FOCUS: RECONCILIATION by mari.litmag

MARIANOPOLIS LITERARY MAGAZINE | JANUARY 2021

Reconciliation

Written and Edited by Participants in Circles for Reconciliation at Marianopolis

Cover Art: Retour aux sources / Homecoming Description: Stylized koi carps make their way home to a natural state of harmony. A beautiful and unscarred land, with pink mountains and blue trees, awaits their return. The wisdom of tradition and of stories is embedded within the intricate patterns painted over their scales. They do not forget; they grow and love. Mediums: watercolour/gouache/textured acrylic

by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year social science student, editor, & organizer of Circles for Reconciliation at Marianopolis

Marianopolis Literary Magazine

Special Issue:

Reconciliation, Justice for Indigenous Peoples in Canada

Written and Edited by Participants in Circles for Reconciliation at Marianopolis Fall 2020

Special thanks to Maria Azadian for additional layout expertise

What are Circles for Reconciliation? “The aim of Circles for Reconciliation is to establish trusting, meaningful relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples as part of the 94 Calls to Action from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.” - Circles For Reconciliation

Reconciliation is about building mutual respect between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians. At Circles for Reconciliation, we attempt to build this respect by learning about history, by sharing thoughts and reflections, and, perhaps above all, by listening to the thoughts and reflections of others. Thanks to Anne Lin Arghirescu and Karonhianoron Curotte, students at Marianopolis College have gotten the opportunity to partake in one of these Circles in Fall 2020. The Circles will continue in Spring 2021 and onwards, but for the time being, many of us who took part in the first Circle would like to share some of the reflections and knowledge that we gained. As I am also Chief Editor of the Literary Magazine, I thought I would use this platform in order to disseminate what we learned. Whether you are Indigenous or non-Indigenous, Reconciliation concerns you. When a legacy of injustice has touched all of Canada, the bringing-to-justice in its wake must touch everyone, too. However, you need not worry: although it is a commitment, reconciliation does not involve that much work. Ideally, it is a lifelong commitment to listening and learning. Since learning never ends, Circles for Reconciliation is only one step in that journey. We hope that this booklet can be a step in yours, too! Sofia Watt Sjöström, Chief Editor

What are the Circles ... to you?

"Crucial for academia" - Karonhianรณ:ron Curotte

"Vital to any Canadian" - Michael Minello

"Hope for the future" - Burgess Mertens

"Healing of identities" - Anne Lin Arghirescu

"Deepened learning through human beings" - Sofia Watt Sjรถstrรถm

From the organizers of Circles at Marianopolis: Often, my longstanding interest and involvement in Indigenous causes strike others as curious. How odd that this would surprise them, I think. As Canadians from different ethnic backgrounds and walks of life, we have a shared responsibility for Reconciliation. We are all treaty people. My personal story is uniquely tortuous. As the daughter of immigrants, I share an improbable fusion of Eastern European and Asian backgrounds. With close to no ties to either my family on the banks of the Mediterranean, or to that on the shores of the Pacific, I have clung to a fictional Canadian identity since childhood. For this reason, the struggles of Indigenous peoples resonate with me. They have, throughout history, been at once assimilated and shunned. I, too, have felt both scrutinized like a curiosity, and alienated from my family. Just like the MĂŠtis people of Canada, who share both settler and Indigenous blood, my identity arises out of colliding and contradicting worldviews. Since I was but a child who loved to hear the traditional legends of the HuronWendat people, I have been drawn to Indigenous stories. In August 2020, I contacted the non-profit Circles for Reconciliation in Manitoba, with the wild idea of a partnership with Marianopolis College, bringing Indigenous and non-Indigenous students closer together. To my astonishment, nearly twenty students responded to the call. That was more participants than we could accommodate in one Circle. Since their first iteration, the online Circles are growing to incorporate students from Cegeps across Montreal, along with Indigenous members from across the country. In the spring, a faculty/staff Circle will invite teachers to deepen their understanding of Indigenous-settler relationships in Canada, allowing them to incorporate this knowledge, and make their classes more inclusive. I am so proud of how far the Circles have come. I sincerely hope that the seed I have planted continues to bloom even after I leave the College. Anne Lin Arghirescu

Circles for Reconciliation brought together students from various ethnic backgrounds with the same intentions: to learn from First Nations and facilitators, and to become further educated on topics which may not have been incorporated into their high school curricula. This is not to say that nonIndigenous participants are completely ignorant of Indigenous culture, but simply to point out that the Canadian educational system glosses over important topics, notably the truth of how the Canadian government treated its Indigenous allies throughout history. During the ten weeks of circles, many questions were asked. A lot of nonIndigenous participants wanted to understand how Indigenous peoples view the world today, and how we use aspects of our past to look forward. Understandably, preconceived ideas sometimes had to be debunked and corrected. However, the atmosphere was that of a discursive circle of friends, not a classroom. As such, after facts explained by the facilitators came many personal stories. My contributions were tied to the interactions between my community and the Canadian government, stories of survival and resilience of the Kanien’kehá:ka peoples of Kahnawá:ke. By telling other students about stories and events that have happened close to Montreal, I believe that I was able to impact their worldviews. For instance, non-Indigenous students began to understand First Nations peoples’ frustration regarding society’s treatment of the environment and its defenders. Because all of us live on the same land, environmental issues, especially in Montreal, helped bring Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples together. And, though it is sad to see the circle come to an end, it was beautiful to see so many Marianopolis students participate voluntarily and on their own time. It was an opportunity for me to speak to people who were willing and eager to listen. For society, I believe that circles like ours can be a stepping stone towards real change, within the college education system, and, hopefully, further across Canada. Karonhianó:ron Curotte

CONTENTS: ~ Circle Reflections / by Michael Minello, Burgess Mertens,

Anne Lin Arghirescu, Karonhianó:ron Curotte, Sofia Watt Sjöström, and Victoria Baer ~ Words of Wisdom / compiled by Bonnie Loewen, Facilitator

~ Personal Journey / by Tammy Cadue, Facilitator

~ This Land is Not Empty Space /

Karonhianó:ron Curotte's experience, written by Sofia Watt Sjöström ~ Killing the ‘Indian’ in the Child:

The Damaging Legacy of Residential Schools / Essay by Michael Minello ~ Treaties and the Indian Act, Not Just Historical Documents /

Essay by Sofia Watt Sjöström ~ Indigenous Storytelling / Essay by Michael Minello

~ Mask for my Nokomis / By Tammy Cadue, Facilitator

~ Sans Nom / Short Story by Anne Lin Arghirescu

~ Climate Change in the Arctic / Essay by Anne Lin Arghirescu,

translated by Sofia Watt Sjöström ~ On the Inuit / Essay by Michael Minello

~ The Right to Be Cold / Essay by Anne Lin Arghirescu

~ Halloween Costumes that perpetuate Colonial Oppression /

Essay by Michael Minello ~ Land Acknowledgements / by Anne Lin Arghirescu, Victoria Baer,

Bonnie Loewen, Tammy Cadue, and Sofia Watt Sjöström ~ Bibliography

Reflections from the Participants: For the better part of my Fall 2020 semester, I had the joy of partaking in Circles for Reconciliation. This program gathers weekly, in order to incite healthy discourse between Indigenous and non-Indigenous participants. We discuss numerous contemporary and historical issues regarding Indigenous peoples in Canada - topics such as the Indian Act, Indigenous spiritualities, and allyship. Because of Circles for Reconciliation, these last few months were extremely valuable to me. I was always eager to attend the next meeting. In my personal time, I have already invested some time into uncovering Indigenous history, because these topics are, frankly, inadequately represented in the secondary school curriculum. Attending the Circles allowed me to continue to deepen my education. My desire to listen and learn was encouraged by the atmosphere fostered by the facilitators and other participants. I felt like I could, and should, share what was on my mind. Ideas could coexist. This coexistence of ideas is something I hope to see in the greater Marianopolis community. In fact, it is something I would ultimately like to see across Canada, because Indigenous concerns have been forgotten and ignored for too long. As a generation, I believe that we have a vital responsibility to correct the past. We need to foster a better relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples: a relationship of learning, and coexistence. Circles for Reconciliation reminded me that this is essential and also, that it can be done. That is what Reconciliation means.

- Michael Minello, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant

In an uncertain year, these ten weeks of Circles have been a welcome constant. While learning about, and discussing, the Indigenous past and present, we shared stories about ourselves. We got to know each other, and found that we had much in common. It seemed that we were all hopeful for the future, despite all the mistakes still unresolved from the past. I would say my favourite thing about the Circles is the opportunity they gave me to connect with other people - and the hope that those people, and their stories, gave me.

- Burgess Mertens, Artist, Indigenous participant & MĂŠtis from Manitoba

These Circles for Reconciliation were a stable and safe haven in a tumultuous online semester at a new school. An hour-long escape from the fast-paced world of global news and sanitary updates, to reflect upon fundamental questions: questions regarding our societies, and concerning our relationships with history, land, and each other. Each themed discussion brought new knowledge that challenged my established worldviews, and invited me to explore new ways of thinking with openness. Additionally, the eager and generous exchange of stories, questions, and soothing tears, both with participants and our wise facilitators, brought healing to my sore identity.

- Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student, Organizer, Editor & non-Indigenous participant

The Circles for Reconciliation theme Call to Business is by far my favorite theme from the Circles. Not only does it show how Indigenous peoples are coming together to make their mark in the Canadian economy, but it also explains that First Peoples are connected through the selling of their art. It even incorporates how Indigenous peoples are using traditional pieces from their culture to sell and showcase their history, which is very important. For many years, small native shops have been gaining popularity in my community. To see that there is an increasing number of Indigenous entrepreneurs across Canada, many of whom have created platforms for artists to showcase their work, is beautiful.

- Karonhianรณ:ron Curotte, third-year Social Science student, Organizer, Indigenous participant & Mohawk from Kahnawรก:ke

I loved getting to know and connect with people across Canada during a time that was otherwise so isolated. Every week, and for every topic, the discussion was rich and illuminating. This way of learning taught me about Indigenous people in a way that a classroom could never do. It also gave me the opportunity both to talk and to listen. As such, my favourite thing about the Circles is what I am mainly taking away: memories of good moments and ideas. Although factual information is important as well, our group discussions have been essential to my understanding of reconciliation. Now more than ever before, reconciliation is a concrete objective to which I aspire.

- Sofia Watt Sjรถstrรถm, second-year Liberal Arts student Chief Editor & non-Indigenous participant

I spent a long time staring at a blank page, wondering how to start this text. How do I properly capture what I learned, and how I felt, during Circles for Reconciliation? How do I use that to look forward, when there is still so much to be done? How do I put into words the road towards reconciliation? During my transition from high school to CEGEP, my interest in environmental activism grew. I quickly realized how Indigenous struggles and climate justice were intertwined. Through social media, I witnessed Indigenous peoples in Canada struggling for basic rights: rights to land, water, healthcare and peace. My sister’s interest in Indigenous law encouraged me to learn about the impact of colonialism. As I realized the proximity of Indigenous peoples’ struggles, I began to search for concrete actions that would help end inequality, and move towards reconciliation. In a perfect world, I would have been handed a list of instructions, telling me how to repair the damage caused by my European ancestors. Of course, we do not live in that world. Reconciliation is far from easy or simple. Nor can it be, when there are years of trauma to repair, and people continue to suffer today. Reconciliation begins with learning -- and a lot of learning, at that. Although I learned bits and pieces of Canadian Indigenous history in high school, I lacked a lot of knowledge about Indigenous peoples both in history and today. This feels especially strange when I consider that I live on unceded lands, in proximity to reserves, such as Kahnawá:ke. Of course, I am not the only one who felt ignorant during the Circles. Most non-Indigenous participants in our Circle shared this sentiment. All of us wanted more than anything to learn. I am so grateful to Circles for Reconciliation, and, especially, our facilitators, Tammy and Bonnie, for giving us the opportunity to do so. I do not think I would understand what Reconciliation meant if it weren’t for the Circles. Perhaps I thought I understood, but I didn’t.

Reconciliation is a lifestyle: it never stops. Not even in ten meetings, or a history book, can it be achieved. Every step counts. To quote Bonnie, we must learn â&#x20AC;&#x153;how to deconstruct and not only worship what we know. It is about waking up curious to what we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know.â&#x20AC;? This means learning both the past, and the present. It is incredible how much Indigenous knowledge could teach us today. For example, the Indigenous relationship with land has opened my eyes to a different vision of nature - a vision compatible with sustainable life. Perhaps if everyone could learn from this vision of nature, we would be more inclined to care for our natural world. Perhaps we would stop destroying our planet, if we realized that all living and non-living beings were inter-connected. To Indigenous people, life is circular. Plants can be burned, but only for specific, non-consumer related reasons. This is in stark contrast to the destructive nature of our capitalist world. During one Circle, Bonnie reminded us that we are only visitors, here on Earth. I will always remember this. She told us that our lives are only temporary, and the earth itself - the trees, the water, and the soil - will still be here after we are gone. She told us to behave like a proper guest, and not to take more than we are offered. She told us not to take for granted the resilience of our natural resources, but to use them with caution and respect. All of us are but visitors on this planet. This is a message I will cherish. For me, Circles for Reconciliation was a step towards reconciliation, trust and peace. I know it will be the first step of many. I also know that there are things I may never truly understand. Without firsthand experience, I may not grasp the suffering and trauma that Indigenous peoples have endured. Moreover, Indigenous peoples often do not wish to

share everything with outsiders. Historically, this has led to cultural appropriation. So, I will still be ignorant, in some ways, but I do not see this ignorance as a terrible impediment. When I do not understand things, I will try to echo the Indigenous voices that have experienced things first-hand. That is how I will spread the message of Reconciliation, whenever and however I can. I will try my best to listen, and to learn. Thank you, Circles, for being my first step.

- Victoria Baer, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant

Piquante by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Red Orchid by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Written Words of Wisdom By Bonnie Loewen, non-Indigenous facilitator from Manitoba While each circle gathered, I took my journal and jotted down your words, the stories and the ways of understanding that moved me, challenged me, or sparked new thoughts. During a time when meaningful connections are strained, and in short supply, I am deeply grateful for the gifts this circle has offered. Thank you, dear Circle for Reconciliation friends, for being an “encounter [that] has within it the power of enchantment.” I read this quote by Richard Wagamese and think of us: “We approach our lives on different trajectories, each of us spinning in our own separate, shining orbits. What gives this life its resonance is when those trajectories cross and we become engaged with each other, for as long or as fleetingly as we do. There's a shared energy then, and it can feel as though the whole universe is in the process of coming together. I live for those times. No one is truly ever "just passing through." Every encounter has within it the power of enchantment, if we're willing to look for it.” From Richard Wagamese’ book, Embers

Anne: “Maybe if we knew more, if our education had been more diverse, we would be able to interact human to human.” "I gasped when I read that ‘their [the government officials’] objective was to remove all land from Indigenous people and make private ownership the only possibility and the substitute for community’. Instead of imposing our own Western practices, we should be humble and open to learn from Indigenous people. They have shown the world they have strong and healthy ways of living that keep good care of this earth and each other.”

“Precious, intimate, delicate. I feel very honored to be let into the sacred ways of Indigenous traditional ceremonies. The circle of Indigenous ways echoes the roundness of Chinese spiritual expression. We are in need of the sense of community that comes from the roundness, and that is more balanced than the exploitive and unsustainable nature of consumerism and capitalism.”

Karonhianoron: “I am grateful to my family for the language, the culture, the ceremony they kept intact” “My name — Karonhianoron — means precious sky. I need to say my whole name, and ask others to do the same, since the power of my name is in the wholeness of it. Take part of it away, take its power away." “Our playground was the forest where we were taught that, in silence, we could hear the little people, the little beings. And in that place we were taught the medicines.” “Our people would pick a house each week, rotating from place to place to practice traditional ceremonies, so that the Indian agents couldn’t find us. That’s how we got through. That’s how we survived.” “We want you to get to know us, our ways. Reconciliation isn’t so much about settlers saying sorry, as much as it is about getting to know us -- to understand us.”

Sofia: “The Oath of Citizenship. This is absurd. As citizens, do we actually pledge our allegiance to the Queen, the very person and institution who promoted colonization, but fail to honour Indigenous peoples?”

(In response to the mask that Tammy brought to circle) “So cool that you brought the past into the very present with your mask. So beautiful. So symbolic.” “I wish we could see/witness the concreteness of Indigenous sacred ways. But I also understand the honour in all of this exchange, the sanctity of these rituals.” “It is truly important to understand in order to cultivate respect.”

Michael: “In my preparation to become a medical student, I will be required to take an Indigenous healing and medicine course. That gives me hope.” "I like these words from this land module: “We do not own mother earth” “Karonhianoron, I like how you noticed the swamp while on the train into Montreal, the animals. And that you noticed that others didn’t notice.” “I like the way this module highlights the difference between our relationships with land. European seek to own; Indigenous, to be stewards.”

Katalina: “It’s not just recovering from the trauma of the past; it’s also the myriad of ways the trauma is linked to things happening right now: [today, Indigenous people in Canada are] over-policed; poor, or lack housing.” “I’m both learning so much about the harsh road, and [becoming increasingly] hopeful in the presence of your strength.” “I’ve loved this conversation, but I’m also a little sad. I’m not sure if the trees

outside my window will be here when I’m gone. I just don’t have faith in this city. I wish I could. I joined in on a protest of an industry who wanted to put fake turf over the park nearby. We won. Real grass grows there now.” “We are all treaty people: Until now, that statement has felt external to me. I thought it [treaty land] was land out there, but now I understand it as land I live on.”

Burgess: “I am left today with hope, positivity. Even though tears were shed, this circle had happiness in it; it was healing.” “I have elms in the front and in the back of my house. I hope those big old trees will still be around [when I’m not].” “I have participated in 2 sweats. A complete experience between mind and body. I felt as if I was born back into the world. An intense cleanse. I can see how healing this sacred experience could be, for both mental and physical struggles.” In response to the question about cultural appropriation: “I always look for intent. If the intent is not to harm, then learning is always possible.”

Victoria: “We are struggling with environmental issues. Why not give Indigenous people more opportunities to take care of the land, and follow their example?” “In school, I learned about the Indian Act in one sentence. If we understand the oppression [that underlies this Act], maybe we would find the courage to connect with [each other, with] understanding. Maybe we would interact differently.”

“Loved the beginning of this reading about Indigenous spirituality. The circle. I Love to contemplate the strength of circle.” “Thanks to each of you, for giving me so many different perspectives. The sad, the hard. I just want to say thanks.”

Tammy Cadue: Gentle Wind Woman. Stepping into my Indigenous self, healing. “I love the whole of me.” “Many of you are from a different generation, and carry a strength that comes from hope. That gives me hope.” “Ceremony is healing. Doing, being, healing, that is ceremony. Being in this circle, and experiencing healing, that is ceremony.”

My Personal Journey By Tammy Cadue, Indigenous facilitator, Métis from Ontario Tammy Cadue is my given name. Gentle Wind Woman is my spirit name. I am of the Otter Clan and I live in London, Ontario. However, my ancestry is diverse. We have many French/Indigenous Peoples in our family tree, many who were involved in the fur trade and followed trading routes out of Quebec, through the Great Lakes. On my father’s side, my heritage is Métis from a long line of French Fur traders by the name of Cadieu/Cadieux/Cadeau/Cadue. In 1653, my Grandfather x9 arrived in Nouvelle France. His son Pierre became involved in the fur trade. He and his brother both married Indigenous women. This continued in many relationships throughout all generations, so I have Ojibwa and Mohawk/Algonquin ancestors, too. On my mother’s side, I come from a long line of Métis. Chief Pontiac, or Bwandiiyag, is my grandfather x7. He lived from the 1730s to 1769, when he was murdered in Cahokia, Illinois. He was a great warrior chief who fought for the rights of all Indigenous peoples. This was just before the great removals of Indigenous peoples started within the Great Lakes region. Bwandiyaag was one of the War Chiefs for the Odawa (Ottawa) tribe. He came from Chippewa and Ojibwa parents.

I could tell my grandmother looked different than me and my mom. When I was a little girl, I asked one of my Aunties where my grandmother came from. I do not remember how old I was. She told me that my grandmother was French and Irish. That answer confused me, as it did not match with her appearance. Grandma Loraine Aikin Johnson

Mom and Grandma

My Aunt Joyce and I in July 2013

Sadly, alcoholism was a big problem within my family. As she was an alcoholic, I did not feel I could ask my grandmother questions. My grandmother was always drinking when I knew her. My grandmother developed Alzheimer’s when I was only 9 or 10 years old, and went to live at a long term care home. I would never see her again. As my mother was extremely protective of me and my brother, she shielded us from our family’s excessive drinking habits. I believe that this is what my Auntie was trying to do when she told me that my grandmother was French and Irish. She certainly had the best intentions, but it left many unanswered questions for me. It took me about 25 years to finally get records from Ancestry.ca and answers from people who had knowledge of my family tree, to confirm what I had always known in my heart – that my grandmother was Indigenous. She came from a long line of Métis through our Bernier line. In fact, we descended from a mighty warrior chief: Bwandiyaag. I learnt this thanks to our oral history. Unfortunately, in the colonial world, oral history is not enough. Even the fact that my mother’s DNA matched that of a cousin who bears the last name Pontiac, which I found out not so long ago, was not enough for everyone. Even scientific evidence is not universally accepted.

Regardless, it cannot be denied that my family has links to the Pontiac history. It makes me sad that many continue to ignore these proofs, and refuse to acknowledge my ancestry. Even before I discovered my family on my mother’s side, I had always resonated with the Métis cultural heritage of my dad. We never forgot our ancestry, and it was embedded within us on so many levels. On my dad’s side, most of us feel comfortable within nature, even living off the land. That is one characteristic we all seem to share. We have ancestral memories of living a more natural life, and we long to go back to those ways. When I was little, my dad made sure we went camping every summer. He and his brothers grew up fishing, hunting, gardening, and canning for the long winters so that the family could eat. My dad stopped hunting when I was little, but he still goes fishing. I have a cousin who still runs trap lines at the hunt camp that he took over from his Dad, my uncle. Moreover, a traditional way of life for many Métis communities of the past included family gatherings with music and dancing that one would call a Jig. In my family, get-togethers were always large, with people playing the guitar and the fiddle, dancing and singing. Once I was able to prove who my maternal grandmother and our ancestors were, I developed a working hypothesis as to how and why she turned to alcohol. I hypothesized that because her mother died when she was eight years old, my grandmother had not been exposed to her own culture. Her father probably told her that she had to hide who she was, so that she could go to a white school, and not get taken away to residential school. This is only my hypothesis. I will never know the full story, but given the evidence I have, I believe that it is valid to assume that this is at least partially true. Putting the puzzle pieces of my maternal ancestry together helped me

understand the intergenerational trauma that my whole family had suffered from. I could finally see my mother for who she was. As I learned about my culture, I started to stand strong in my ancestry. Before retracing my roots, I was often triggered by political arguments about who qualifies to be MĂŠtis and who qualifies to say that they are Indigenous. Even my own relations made these arguments, which was alienating and upsetting. When I started my healing journey in 2016, I began to deal with my intergenerational trauma, and I started to own and be proud of my Indigenous identity on both sides of my family. I started being recognized for who I was. It started with Indigenous elders who recognized me on a spiritual level. Then, as I grew more and more involved in my culture and community, only a select few still questioned my identity. Now, I realize that those people are lashing out at me for their own reasons, so it has more to do with their own incomplete healing than with who I am. I no longer feel triggered or hurt as I used to, because I know who I am, and when someone questions that, I gently deal with it instead of feeling hurt.

Returning: Birds and Plankton by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Conquest by Condos: This Land is not Empty Space! Inspired by the personal experience & ideas of Karonhianó:ron Curotte, third-year Social Science student, Organizer, Indigenous participant from Kahnawá:ke Written by Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student, Chief Editor & non-Indigenous participant “Before the pandemic, I travelled to and from school by train, every day. This commute took more than an hour in each direction, so I lost a lot of time, but I always enjoyed it. Even when I was tired after school, even when the light was fading and it was cold outside, I used to love looking out the window. “There was so much to see, back then. There was so much greenery: huge swathes of trees and bushes, meadows brimming with voracious grass, little creeks and pools of water. It was a beautiful, ever-changing landscape, punctuated by train stations, and the grey lines of residential areas, but mostly just a sea of green. “To some people, it was just unused swampland, dirty and uncontrolled. To me, it was beautiful. The more I looked, the more beauty I saw. Squirrels and rabbits were everywhere, free to roam. I even saw foxes upon several occasions, slinking along without fear, rusty coats tinged yellow in the rising or fading sun. In the evening, I could sometimes hear the muted chorus of croaking frogs. “Above, in the pale blue sky, you could see layers of movement, if you only cared to look. Clouds inched along. Flocks of migratory birds formed swooping, awe-inspiring patterns. Individual birds of prey darted up there, just pinpoint-sized, huge claws dashing through the air. There were not only crows and pigeons, but geese and hawks. The geese’s honking was so loud that it filtered in through the walls and windows of the train. Softened by those barriers, the noise felt soothing to my ears.

“Even when I anticipated the long day ahead, or slumped in my seat after a day at work, I took pleasure in the outside world. There was so much on offer – every day, every week, every month and season brought something new. “What shocked me, however, was that I was the only one who saw. “I was the only one looking out the window. I was the only one seeing the irresistible beauty of the natural world. “What did everyone else do? There, trapped in our metal box of many metal boxes slowly trailing down the tracks, they looked in. They looked down – at their cellphones, their tablets, their laptops, their books. They wore earbuds or headphones to drone out the endless chug. They trapped themselves in an even smaller cave – a cave unto themselves. “I do not mean to antagonize them for this behaviour. They, like me, were tired from days and weeks and months, hard at work. Perhaps no one had taught them that the natural world was wonderful, and sacred. Perhaps no one had shown them how to take pleasure in it. “I just found it really sad. There was so much beauty out there – but these people did not see it. Realizing that the only one who saw was me… I felt lonely. It was alienating. It felt like a burden – I had to carry that beauty, I had to see it, and appreciate it, for those who could not. I had to carry on my people’s ways: the knowledge that this land was sacred, and deserved our respect. “It was sad that the people around me did not feel the same way. It was sad when they offhandedly said that nothing was out there. It was even worse when they said that it was nothing but unused swampland; untamed wilderness; empty space. “How could they say that, when they did not open their eyes? How could they say that, when they did not care to look properly?” I sigh. “How could they not notice when it all was destroyed?” My tone is even, but my temper is not. Within me, something writhes and squirms. I am indignant – how can this world be so unjust?

“When it finally happened, it happened quickly. Over the course of a few months, the swamps, the trees, the grasses – were gone. In their place, shot up thick walls of brick and cement. Rows of windows gaped, yet to be filled with glass. Bulldozers and diggers littered the landscape like children’s toys – massive objects seemed small in the distance, from the train window, when you were just passing by. “That fall, when I came back from summer break, it was almost over. The untameable greenery had finally been tamed – replaced by stacks of condos, and asphalt roads. Without the packs of geese in the sky, and without the frogs croaking in the swamps at dusk, there was nothing but the soft chug of the train. A kind of silence – an eerie reminder of that which was no longer there. “It was almost unfathomable: how quickly, how thoughtlessly, the natural world was ravaged – gone, and never to return. Society had annexed it, grabbing its resources, and devastating its land, without a second thought. “The worst part was that nobody else noticed. Just as I had been the only one to see its incredible beauty, I was the only one who saw now that that beauty was gone. I was alone in noticing that things were irrevocably altered. I was alone to see this injustice. “And,” I gulp, “no one else seemed to care. “It was pretty depressing… I was the only one to see nature’s beautiful, intrinsic worth, and yet, I was helpless to stop its destruction… I felt very small. It was hard to just keep going about everything as usual. It felt like pretending that everything was okay – when it wasn’t. “I’m thankful that I grew up in Kahnawá:ke, and attended Kahnawá:ke Survival School. I learnt how to respect nature from an early age. I learnt that I was part of it, and it was sacred. Even in High School, I was not holed up behind a desk – I was given opportunities to interact with nature. “But I do not believe these truths are exclusive to my people. I believe that even non-Indigenous people would benefit from a greater relationship with the natural world. People are so distant from it – and often, it’s right under

their nose. If only you stopped a moment, and looked – really looked – I think you would see the world differently. “If only people saw that the land was not empty, but brimming with life, then maybe, just maybe, condos like these would not be built. “It’s wishful thinking, I know. But I have hope.”

Overflow by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Killing the ‘Indian’ in the Child: The Damaging Legacy of Residential Schools By Michael Minello, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant Indigenous peoples in Canada have long since been victim to assaults on their cultures and livelihoods. This continues to play out today, but its origin can be traced to the colonial period. Until recently, the Canadian residential school system was essentially a weapon, used to violently assimilate, and destroy Indigenous communities (Monchalin, 2016). European settlers viewed Indigenous peoples as lacking humanity and order. In the Davin Report of 1879, regarding the “Indian problem”, it was proposed that in order to “relieve them [Indigenous peoples] of their savagery”, children were to be taken away from the “influence of the wigwam” at a young age, then placed in assimilatory facilities (Monchalin, 2016). This system was inspired by the “aggressive civilization” tactics of the United States, especially “the most damaging and cruelest parts” (Monchalin, 2016). Ripped away from their families without warning, children as young as four were sent to residential schools (Sellars, 2016). There, Indigenous children were forced to exclusively speak English. They had their clothes taken, their hair cut short, and, essentially, their identities erased. Deprived of their language and culture, these children were victim to abuse and starvation (Sellars, 2016). Above all, “routine sexual and physical abuse” were unannounced products of this oppressive system (Monchalin, 2016). Despite their promise of ‘education’, the residential schools ultimately prepared Indigenous children to constitute the “lower fringes of dominant society” (Monchalin, 2016). These residential schools were cheaply built, but wielded criminal power. They distorted ‘education,’ to use as a weapon of cultural genocide (Monchalin, 2016).

Although the last residential school closed in 1996, these barbaric institutions left deep lesions within contemporary Indigenous communities. Deprived of their culture, language, and a proper education, children left school as “time bombs” (Sellars, 2016). Many committed suicide, drank, and abused drugs (Sellars, 2016). After having been disconnected from their own families in their youth, many grew up to have families that also lacked connectedness (Indigenous in the City, 2013). It seems that, among other things, the colonial project to “kill the Indian in the child” generated a slew of intergenerational trauma and internalized oppression (Indigenous in the City, 2013). Not only did they fail to foster a “cognitive space for learning”, but they prevented many Indigenous young people from ever properly integrating into the workforce (Battiste, 2016; Indigenous in the City, 2013). Without question, the Canadian government turned a blind eye to the horrors and abuse occurring in residential schools (Monchalin, 2016). It is essential that we do not continue to do so when it comes to Indigenous peoples’ suffering today. Education, once wielded as a weapon for the cultural genocide of Indigenous peoples, is now key to reconciliation (Monchalin, 2016).

Treaties and the Indian Act: Not Just Historical Documents By Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student, Chief Editor & non-Indigenous participant Today, much of the discussion of Indigenous peoples revolves around Indigenous history, and in particular, how mistreated Indigenous peoples have been at settler-colonial hands. This is a legitimate discussion that needs to be had. However, it should not be the only discussion, for Indigenous peoples do not just exist in the past. Moreover, their rights and legal traditions are fundamentally intertwined with those of the rest of Canada, because almost all of us live on “treaty land”. It is everyone’s loss if we take treaties and laws to be historical artifacts when they are actually “living documents” today (Logan). I therefore want to briefly explore treaties and the Indian Act from both a historical and contemporary point of view. It is a common misconception that the treaties forced Indigenous peoples to give up their land. Before Canada was established in 1867 by the British North America Act, there was apparently greater respect between colonial and Indigenous peoples, as the British recognized Indigenous land rights in the Royal Proclamation of 1763 (Joseph 83; Logan). That is why treaties generally establish, rather than take away, Indigenous rights to land; it is usually when treaties are broken that the land is stolen. For instance, the Manitoba Act of 1870 was supposed to grant Métis people the right to land through the “scrip” process, but because it was unjustly implemented, much of the land was confiscated (Logan). Likewise, although interpretations of the eleven numbered treaties (1871 to 1921) are contested, it is clear that they set out to “share the land in a spirit of peace and coexistence” (Currie 5; Logan). That being said, these treaties

allocated land to Indigenous groups in a potentially arbitrary way, which sometimes entailed their displacement (Joseph 25). Moreover, most of the promises made to Indigenous people in the numbered treaties were broken from the start, especially after 1876 with the Indian Act (Currie 6; Patzer). Either government officials had no intention of keeping their promises when they signed the numbered treaties, or they had other objectives in mind. This applies to not only promised land rights, but also to the promise of education, which the government perverted by forcing Indigenous students to attend residential schools (Joseph 52). In 1911, an amendment made it possible for the government to displace Indigenous peoples without even consulting them (Joseph 33). Perhaps there was no “meeting of minds” when the treaties were signed, which could legally annul them (Currie 4-5). Unfortunately, this is not as desirable as it sounds: despite the legacy of theft and injustice left in their wake, these treaties also establish a framework upon which Indigenous peoples’ rights to land continue to depend. As such, most treaties maintain their relevance today as well. I want to emphasize that we, too, are on treaty land. Although both the Manitoba Act and the eleven numbered treaties affect only the prairies, modern treaties, known as “comprehensive land claim agreements,” affect many other provinces, including Quebec (Logan). This land is also implicated in the Dish With One Spoon treaty, which covers parts of Quebec and Ontario (Currie 1). It is one of the oldest known treaties, and involves two Indigenous groups, but no settlers. It existed as of 1142 if not earlier, but the specific iteration of the treaty that definitely affects Montreal is a 1701 treaty between the Anishinaabe and Haudenosaunee peoples (Currie 1). Too often, we learn about Indigenous people only in their interactions with settlers (Simpson 31). This treaty, and the Wampum Belt associated with it, is a humbling reminder that there is so much history that we are not taught. The symbolic nature of the Dish With One Spoon establishes that “the dish is never empty,” nor is it accompanied by a knife (Currie 1). In other words, the

land is shared: there should be no violence or exploitation (Currie 1). Even though the treaty involved the Anishinaabe and the Haudenosaunee, perhaps all of us could benefit from this treaty’s message: never to take more than our natural world gives. Those of us who live in Montreal are treaty people, too.

Wave by Anne Lin Arghirescu Passed in 1876, the Indian Act failed to show Indigenous peoples the “mutual respect” that they showed one another centuries earlier (Simpson 38). Unfortunately, it still underlies Indigenous rights today. In fact, even those who despise its historical legacy may feel that there is no viable alternative right now, and the Act retains its crucialness in that it legally ensures that Indigenous peoples’ reserve lands are protected for their “common use” (Patzer). It should be noted that well-meaning non-Indigenous people have attempted to do away with the Indian Act in the past, for instance Pierre Trudeau’s government in 1969 (Joseph 89). Unfortunately, his so-called “White Paper” actually infuriated many Indigenous peoples, who

felt patronized and antagonized by this attempt “to assimilate [them] into mainstream society” and remove their rights (Joseph 90). This suggests that abolishing the Indian Act is not a simple task. However, although today’s Indian Act looks different from the one in 1876, there is no denying that it is a “colonial relic” (Patzer; Joseph 95). Even today, it defines Indigenous identity by determining who has “status,” and who does not (Patzer). If a status Indigenous person marries non-Indigenous or non-status Indigenous people two generations in a row, their grandchildren automatically lose Indigenous status, and the “associated legal rights” (Patzer; Joseph 11). One could argue that this is necessary due to logistical reasons, but regardless of whether or not that is true, I find it problematic that the government is allowed to define Indigenous identity. After all, identity is generally personal. I think many would agree that people have a right to define themselves. When it comes to culture, perhaps it is not individuals, but communities, who do so. It is certainly incongruous that the mostly non-Indigenous federal government gets to define who is Indigenous in Canada today. That is one of the reasons I believe it makes sense to hopefully replace the Indian Act with a timelier and more empowering piece of legislature – one that promotes Indigenous “selfgovernment, self-determination and self-reliance” (Joseph 105). Another reason for the necessary abolition of the Indian Act is historical. This law was created in order to exclude Indigenous people from legal status, through a process known, misleadingly, as “enfranchisement” (Logan). Unfortunately, by depriving Indigenous people of their identity and status, non-Indigenous Canadians felt that they were doing them a favour. They believed, at least initially, that it was their “duty” to bring Indigenous people into “higher civilization” (Joseph 8). Perhaps that is why Indigenous people were not considered legal persons until 1951 (Joseph 27). In fact, the government expected Indigenous people to voluntarily enfranchise themselves, and encouraged them to do so by offering them land allotments

(Joseph 27-28). As it became clear that Indigenous people did not want to give up their communities or identities, amendments to the Indian Act made Indigenous status more and more restrictive (Joseph 29). Shockingly, a number of different Indigenous people were disqualified from legal status as of 1876 and 1880: Indigenous women with non-status husbands, and any Indigenous person who became a “doctor, lawyer or member of the clergy,” or earned a university degree (Patzer; Joseph 29). That’s right: for an Indigenous person in the late 19th century, the pursuit of higher education came at the expense of one’s identity. It should be noted that Inuit and Métis people were excluded from Indigenous status from the start (Logan). Moreover, the Indian Act limited the time an Indigenous person could spend away from their reserve to four years (Currie 7). After the Pass System was implemented in 1885, Indian Agents dictated who could leave the reserve, as well as when and why (Currie 7-8). This made it more and more difficult for Indigenous people to go beyond their own communities – and next to impossible to do so for a longer period of time, without giving up the right to return. The Indian Act also disempowered Indigenous communities in other ways. It allowed the government to depose traditional leaders in favour of government-sanctioned leadership, often in abrupt and disruptive ways (Patzer). It imposed patriarchal values by excluding Indigenous women from politics and making it easier for them to lose their status (Patzer; Joseph 21). Moreover, an 1884 amendment explicitly criminalized Indigenous culture by making traditional ceremonies like Potlatch illegal (Patzer; Currie 7). In 1927, an amendment prevented Indigenous people from using the justice system without the government’s consent (Currie 7; Patzer). This meant that Indigenous people had to ask the government for consent if they wanted to fight the government in court. Non-Indigenous people could go to jail for helping Indigenous people simply purchase legal advice, and Indigenous people were not allowed to organize politically (Joseph 74). In other words,

they were deprived of the legal and democratic rights which are supposed to be guaranteed to all Canadians. By 1920, an amendment to the Indian Act made it obligatory for Indigenous children to attend residential schools, which led to many deaths, and caused long-lasting trauma (Joseph 54-59). These schools not only removed children from their homes and communities, but also sought to eradicate the Indigenous way of life (Joseph 54-59). Just like socalled enfranchisement can be disenfranchising, education can be a wicked tool of assimilation. I’d argue that the Indian Act is cloaked in a veneer of ‘civilization’ – concealing deeply racist, destructive goals. Even though these laws and contracts were signed centuries ago, most treaties and the Indian Act remain relevant today. Although it is great that we include Indigenous peoples’ history in our school history curricula, we need to go further. Too often, Indigenous peoples are summed up in a few pages, if not a few lines of text. Moreover, what we suppose are “historic” documents maintain their legal importance. This means that all of us have to go beyond the history classroom in order to learn what Indigenous rights are today. Education is part of reconciliation. If you don’t know where to start, I would recommend a book: 21 Things You May not Know about the Indian Act, by Bob Joseph.

Indigenous Storytelling By Michael Minello, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant Although creation stories all conclude the same way, with humanity roaming the Earth, these stories can vary greatly in terms of content and telling. There are countless creation stories in circulation today, even within communities. In general terms, the Indigenous perspective regarding creation defies the Euronormative, monolithic one. The Woman Who Fell from the Sky is a creation story from an Indigenous point of view. It recounts the tale of Charm, a curious woman who contributed to the creation of land and of man, alongside the Twins and the animals (King, 2017). The story is light-hearted, but “beneath the comic characters” lies deep meaning (King, 2017). This story is unique in that it treats creation as “a shared activity” (King, 2017). Interestingly, just like creation in the story is shared, so is the dissemination of the story, because it is typically recounted, and passed on, orally. This means that the story is in constant transformation, slightly different each time it is recited. To those familiar with the “predominantly scientific, capitalist [and] Judeo-Christian world” this can seem strange, but it is as it should be (King, 2017). Many are familiar with the Biblical story of Genesis: an almighty God singlehandedly creates a perfect world void of hunger, sickness, and death (King, 2017). Once tempted by the forbidden fruit, Adam and Eve are tossed to the unforgiving wilderness, and left to fend for themselves. The contrast between the peaceful garden of Eden and the harsh wilderness illustrates the strict Judeo-Christian dichotomy between good and evil. Dichotomies like this go beyond religious creed; they seem to constitute “the elemental structure of Western society” (Battiste, 2016; King, 2017).

Indigenous stories have a very different significance from Judeo-Christian ones. In Genesis, humanity is trapped in a cruel world, created by an omnipotent, even autocratic God (King, 2017). By contrast, the Indigenous perspective considers that the world was created not by a single entity, but through communal effort. In addition, the Indigenous world is not governed by dichotomies, but seems to “celebrate equality and balance” (King, 2017). This may explain why Indigenous peoples consider that the exploitation of land destroys the relationship between Earth and humanity (“Stewards of the Land,” 2016). To them, these forces are not polar opposites, but complement each other, like mother and father (“Stewards of the Land,” 2016). Unlike Judeo-Christian stories, Indigenous storytelling does not seek to perpetuate strict ideologies. It is, in its essence, about inciting thought and wonder.

Mask dedicated to Tammyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nokomis By Tammy Cadue, Indigenous facilitator, MĂŠtis from Ontario To reclaim the identity that my maternal family was denied because of prejudice, I have learned the teachings and ceremonies that belong to my Anishinaabe family and Metis family. I am committed to learning a couple of my traditional languages; and I taught myself how to bead. At the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic a distant cousin of mine, Nathalie Bertin, organized a beading challenge and competition that asked for masks to be made in a traditional manner for a possible museum exhibit. I created a mask that I submitted for evaluation. Although my mask was not chosen, I am proud of what I created. I have dedicated this mask to my Nokomis (short form â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Kokum and Grandmother in English). Each bead added to this mask was dedicated to her and to her life.

Sans Nom Award-Winning Short Story in the 2019 Concours de nouvelles de Pont-St-Esprit, « Quelle Famille ?! » By Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student, Organizer, Editor & non-Indigenous participant Autochtone. Il était Autochtone. Ce mot résonnait, doux comme une berceuse, à son oreille. Il sonnait beau, chaud, réconfortant. Autochtone. Pourtant, il était déçu. Il avait espéré, un court instant, le temps d’une étincelle, que ces dix lettres combleraient le vide en lui. Ce vide qui grandissait de jour en jour, comme une mer, une mer sans eau, et qui menaçait de l’engloutir tout entier, pour toujours. Le vide de l’oubli. Au fond de sa mémoire, il y avait une image. Une image troublante, qui lui apparaissait dans ses rêves et le tourmentait dans son sommeil. Des murs de glace. Des bras chauds, berceurs. Des paroles douces murmurées à son oreille. Le son apaisant de la théière sur le feu. Des parfums. Des sensations. Un monde feutré de confort. Soudain, des bras rudes, des cris, des négociations, des pleurs. Puis, plus rien. Tout petit, il avait été arraché à ses racines, à sa culture, placé dans un lieu austère, dont il ne connaissait même pas le nom, et qu’il n’avait aucune envie de connaître. Tous les matins, il fallait se lever avec le soleil, réciter des psaumes et recopier la Bible. Il fallait rincer, frotter, brosser et sécher le carrelage, dépoussiérer les meubles, laver la vaisselle. Il fallait endurer la ceinture et le fouet. Il fallait résoudre des équations, des pages entières de calculs sans queue ni tête. Il fallait lire des poèmes, des poèmes qui parlaient de mondes de tranquillité et de joie, des mondes où résonnait le rire. Des mythes pour les enfants, auxquels il avait depuis longtemps renoncé à croire. Un nuage de colère se leva en lui, pareil à ceux qui soulèvent la poussière

des chambres vides. À quoi bon ? Sa tête tournait d’épuisement et de douleur à chaque fin de journée ; il avait résolu une dizaine de problèmes, mais il n’était pas plus avancé. À quoi bon remplir une page de chiffres et une autre de lettres s’il ne pouvait pas résoudre son énigme, son énigme à lui ? Sa question, son intrigue, son mystère, enfoui dans un repli de son âme, à l’abri, du moins, temporairement, du précipice béant qui se creusait en lui. Son identité. Qui était-il ? Il savait qu’il était différent des surveillants ; lui et ses autres camarades. Il n’appartenait pas à ce lieu, parmi ces grandes personnes qui rythmaient ses journées aux coups de fouet et d’injures. Ils avaient la peau pâle, comme cette neige qui n’en finissait plus de tomber au dehors. Ici, tout était blanc : les murs, le plafond, les tuniques de tissu grossier, les portes et les meubles en bois décoloré. Tout était incolore, sans vie. Il avait peur de devenir lui-même une tâche transparente et floue, invisible au milieu de cette blancheur morbide. Les surveillants avaient des yeux clairs, comme un ciel bleu, tranquille et impassible, juste avant que l’orage n’éclate. Lui, il était sombre. Lui et ses colocataires. Son teint basané virait au rouge, et ses yeux étaient foncés, son regard assuré. La détermination était une force paisible qui émanait de toutes les pores de sa peau. Il aimait observer son reflet. Parfois, il se risquait à sortir un éclat de verre même si les miroirs étaient formellement interdits. Il était toujours prudent et ne sortait le morceau qu’à l’aube, quand tous dormaient profondément. Il se scrutait, pendant des heures, empli d’intérêt. Au fond, son reflet, son image, c’était la seule chose qui l’empêchait d’oublier tout à fait. Il regardait autour de lui, impuissant, les caractères les plus bourrus et rebelles se dompter peu à peu, les éclairs dans les yeux s’effacer, les épaules tomber. Un par un, il regardait ses camarades sombrer dans cette torpeur, exécutant les ordres machinalement, sans plus protester. Ils avaient perdu jusqu’au dernier souvenir de leur être. Ils avaient abandonné, bercé par les mots rudes et les soufflets, les corvées sans fin et la faim. Mais pas lui. Il résisterait. Au fond, pour survivre, il fallait se prétendre docile, vulnérable, attendre que les portes s’ouvrent, puis s’enfuir. Il savait que s’il protestait, s’il refusait de plier, ils le briseraient, comme on rompt d’un

coup sec la branche morte d’un arbre. Il continuerait d’espérer et de chercher les pièces manquantes de son casse-tête. Il en avait déjà deux : son reflet, et ce nouveau mot, « autochtone ». C’était son père qui le lui avait murmuré. Comme on lâche une pierre dans un étang, des ondes s’étaient propagées dans son âme troublée au son de ces nouvelles syllabes. Son père lui avait glissé clandestinement ce mot précieux lors de la messe du dimanche matin, le seul moment de la semaine où les hommes du bâtiment A et les garçons du bâtiment B se réunissaient dans le foyer commun pour écouter ensemble la sainte parole du Christ. Il frissonna. À quel prix son père s’était risqué ! Quarante coups de sangle et un jour sans ration… Les échanges, matériels et immatériels, étaient défendus. On ouvrait la bouche uniquement pour répondre à un surveillant ou réciter ses prières. La solitude les rongeait comme la rouille ronge le fer ; le mécanisme robuste de leur jeunesse tombait peu à peu en un état de délabrement. Son père… Il sourit. Ça, c’était une troisième pièce de son casse-tête qu’il possédait, un petit morceau de son identité. Son père. Son père… Son… *** Des voix agitées dans la chambre voisine le tirèrent de son demi-sommeil. Ses yeux s’ouvrirent et clignèrent en direction de la porte du dortoir. Une lumière tremblotante apparaissait à travers les nombreuses fissures du bois et se rapprochait. Vite, il referma ses paupières et feignit le repos alors que la porte du dortoir s’ouvrait sans délicatesse, faisant grincer ses gonds et réveillant les pensionnaires. Il entendit de lourds pas s’approcher de son lit. Soudain, une branche de bois souple vint rouvrir une plaie sur son mollet. « Trop fatigué pour nous entendre, hein ? Eh bien ! Peut-être que t’aimerais ça, laver le linge demain ? Lève-toi ! Et suis-nous… On a une petite surprise pour toi ! » La douleur faisait monter des larmes à ses yeux. Que lui voulaient-ils ? Au eau milieu de la nuit… Cela ne pouvait qu’être une terrible annonce. Il obtempéra

mollement et suivit les deux surveillants et leurs sourires cruels, qui flottaient au-dessus de leurs têtes comme un mauvais présage. Sur son passage, ses compagnons le regardaient de leurs yeux effarés, vides d’expression. Une sueur glacée lui coula dans le dos. *** Il s’était enfui. Il regardait au dehors l’aurore étalant sa poudre dorée à travers le ciel. Mais il ne voyait rien. Devant ce spectacle de la nature si pur, si vibrant, il demeurait indifférent. Tous ses membres s’étaient durcis. Durant la nuit, ses cinq sens avaient glissé hors de son emprise et ne lui répondaient plus. Même son cerveau semblait nébuleux. Parti. Cette pensée tournait dans sa tête, sans parvenir à réenclencher le mécanisme. Son père n’était plus là. Brusquement, une connexion à l’intérieur de son crâne s’effectua et il prit conscience de toute l’ampleur de cette vérité. Fui. Son père avait fui. Il avait plié bagage et il s’était éclipsé. Il avait emporté avec lui l’équivalent de cinq jours de nourriture. Il avait volé. Pour seul compagnon dans sa fuite, un vieux sac en cuir usé contenant ses humbles possessions. Il s’était sauvé. Échappé. Un jour là, l’autre jour disparu. « Mais pas pour longtemps », lui répétaient les surveillants. « Pas pour longtemps. » Et quand ils prononçaient ces trois mots, un sourire horrible déformait leurs traits. Il grimaça amèrement. Il ne le savait que trop bien. Le règlement, il le connaissait par cœur : « Tous ceux qui oseront se montrer ingrats aux services et à l’abri qui leur sont offerts, tous ceux qui oseront dépasser les limites indiquées, tous ceux qui oseront partir pour ne plus revenir seront fortement sanctionnés. » Il savait que la police et les chiens de chasse étaient déjà sur la piste de son père. Il savait qu’ils le trouveraient. Bien vite. Il tressaillit. Que ferait-on à son père si on le trouvait ? On le fouetterait, on l’enfermerait en prison, et on s’arrangerait pour qu’il n’en ressorte plus. « Fortement sanctionné ». Son père avait même fait pire que de s’enfuir. Il avait volé. Il était un criminel. Pourquoi ? Toujours, toujours, cette question refaisait surface dans son esprit troublé. Pourquoi risquer tant ? Et surtout, pourquoi le quitter, lui, son fils ? Cette dernière pensée, bien

qu’égoïste, le faisait atrocement souffrir. Il regarda ses camarades s’activer au dehors à travers la fenêtre couverte de givre. Les pétales délicats de glace traçaient des mosaïques de fleurs sur le carrelage sale de la vitre. Aujourd’hui, il était exempté du nettoyage matinal de la cour. Il était enfermé dans le dortoir, seul. On ne voulait pas que le fils suive le père et on le surveillait. Le soleil s’était levé. *** Toute la journée, il chercha une réponse à ses questions. Il avait le vague sentiment de commettre une erreur, mais il n’arrivait pas à saisir le sens de sa faute. La fuite de son père avait éveillé quelque chose de nouveau en lui, et il se sentait changé. Pourtant, il n’arrivait pas à mettre la main dessus. Tout autour, les coups de fouet portés sur ses camarades lui semblaient plus violents, les visages des surveillants plus haineux, les plaies plus saignantes, les corvées plus longues, les repas plus maigres. Cette vie qu’il avait supportée jusqu’alors sans protester lui paraissait à présent insoutenable, oppressante. Alors qu’il soulevait le lourd panier de linge sale pour aller le laver au sous-sol, le fragment de verre tomba de sa poche et son reflet se dessina sur la surface lisse, plus pénétrant que jamais. Il s’attarda, sa charge suspendue au-dessus de sa tête, et observa attentivement ses yeux, dont toute la hardiesse avait disparu ; ses lèvres, qui tremblaient légèrement, comme si elles brûlaient de lui dévoiler quelque chose. Tout à coup, un bruit sec dans la chambre voisine lui fit lâcher prise. À côté, on frappait un innocent. Un cri douloureux éclata et rompit le silence d’une onde de souffrance, presque palpable. C’est cela qui le décida. Ce cri, cette marque d’injustice, effaça tout doute de son esprit. Enfin, il comprit. Il comprit que son père ne l’avait pas abandonné. Il comprit que c’était lui qui l’avait abandonné, en refusant d’écouter la voix du père qui hurlait en lui. Toute la journée, son père lui avait indiqué le chemin à suivre. Son père avait semé des cailloux blancs sur son chemin pour le guider. À lui de les suivre. Il devait partir. Ce soir. Partir à la recherche de son père. Trouver les pièces manquantes de son existence.

*** Cette nuit-là, il s’enfuit. Il attendit, le souffle court, que les derniers sanglots de ses camarades et les derniers éclats de voix des surveillants eurent été étouffés par le sommeil. Puis, il se leva et s’approcha clandestinement de la fenêtre qu’il ouvrit, tout doucement, millimètre par millimètre. Il escalada le rebord de la fenêtre avec souplesse et agilité. Au-dessus du gouffre, il eut un moment d’hésitation. Son père voulait-il vraiment qu’il parte à sa recherche ? Qu’il s’enfuisse ?... Et s’il se faisait rattraper ? Une sueur froide perla sur son front. Il resta indécis, sur le rebord de la fenêtre grande ouverte, respirant l’air froid de la nuit pendant un long moment. Le toussotement malade d’un camarade couché dans le dortoir le rappela à la réalité. Il ferma les yeux, et sauta. Le dortoir était situé au deuxième étage du bâtiment : la chute était périlleuse. Alors qu’il tombait dans la nuit, l’air glacial du soir s’engouffrait à travers le tissu de son maigre vêtement, mordant sa chair nue. Il atterrit doucement, la neige ayant amorti sa chute. Il rabattit le capuchon de son manteau et attrapa son sac à dos. Il avait emporté avec lui suffisamment de vivres pour une semaine. Sans un regard en arrière, il quitta son passé. Cette cage qui avait enfermé sa jeunesse, il ne la regarda même pas, avec sa petite porte encore ouverte sur le vide et d’où il était tombé. Après avoir franchi la grille d’un bond léger, il se mit à courir. Devant lui, il y avait la forêt. Il n’avait plus peur. Après toutes ces années, il prenait enfin son envol. *** Il avançait péniblement, luttant à chaque pas contre cette nature hostile qui voulait l’empêcher de progresser. Il essayait laborieusement de se frayer un passage entre les troncs de bouleaux et de pins, dont les branches cachaient une partie du ciel. La neige ici était plus dense et plus épaisse ; elle s’était accumulée durant la journée en une hauteur considérable : elle lui arrivait à présent jusqu’aux genoux. Il était trempé et il avait froid. Les arbres profitaient de son passage pour déverser des pelletés de neiges sur son pauvre corps meurtri. Son manteau ruisselait abondamment et ne lui offrait

qu’une piètre protection. Il leva les yeux. Un soleil incertain, distant, presque inaccessible pointait un rayon hésitant hors de sa couverture de nuages. C’était un rayon froid, décoloré, qui lui rappela que le jour s’était levé, et qu’il était seul, perdu, et grelottant. *** Neuf jours. Cela faisait à présent neuf jours qu’il avait quitté sa prison. Il avait l’impression qu’une année entière s’était déjà écoulée. Les cèdres blancs et les conifères s’étendaient à perte de vue, et semblaient se rapprocher de jour en jour, comme s’ils voulaient l’étouffer. Il avait toujours froid, il était toujours perdu, mais d’autres problèmes venaient s’ajouter à son malheur, comme une pyramide qui se construisait sur ses épaules et sous laquelle il ne tarderait pas à s’écrouler. Tout d’abord, il y avait le problème des rations journalières. Il avait tenté, tant bien que mal, d’allonger sa subsistance avec de la neige fondu et des cônes de pins. Malheureusement, la sève était peu nourrissante et cette maigre pitance ne suffirait bientôt plus à le faire avancer. Il n’osait imaginer le sort qui lui était réservé s’il ne trouvait pas un refuge, et vite. Un autre tourment, et qui l’inquiétait bien davantage, venait s’ajouter à la pile : les chiens de traîneau. La police s’était lancée à sa poursuite, aidée par une armée de canins féroces qui finiraient par le dépister. Ils avançaient vite, et il n’avait qu’une très courte longueur d’avance. Des aboiements lui arrivaient parfois et le glaçaient encore plus qu’il ne l’était déjà. Quand les pas lourds de la troupe se rapprochaient et commençaient à faire tomber la neige des cimes des arbres, il creusait à grande peine un trou dans la neige devenue glace, afin de s’y abriter, recouvrant l’ouverture de branches odorantes en espérant qu’elles suffiraient à couvrir son odeur. Parfois, il restait enfoui sous cette épaisse couche blanche pendant des heures, les plus terrifiantes de sa vie, sans oser refaire surface, sentant le museau des chiens de chasse et les bottes des hommes justes au-dessus de sa tête. La neige, qui tombait toujours, lui assurait à la fois la vie et la mort. Elle effaçait ses pas dans la neige, et rendait les contours des choses incertains. Par contre, elle était

toujours aussi froide, aussi inhospitalière et aussi lourde. La nuit, il ne dormait pas, cherchant à accroître l’écart entre lui et la police ou parce qu’il avait tout simplement trop peur de ne plus se réveiller. Tout le jour, il avançait dans cette forêt interminable de squelettes blancs qui lui tendaient leurs longs bras nus ; il avait peur, c’était comme si la mort l’attendait, à bras ouverts, à chaque coin de la forêt. Ses mains étaient toutes bleuies et son souffle, glacé. Il avait perdu en chemin un gant qui avait été immédiatement réquisitionné par un écureuil maigre et féroce, l’œil hagard de faim et de froid. Il enfilait la seule mitaine qui lui restait alternativement sur une main puis sur l’autre, changeant de main toutes les dix minutes, afin d’éviter que ses doigts ne gèlent définitivement. Ses bottes étaient constamment trempées de neige et le cuir, de mauvaise qualité, s’était troué, ne le protégeant plus du tout des souches rudes des arbres morts sur lesquelles il marchait. Il avait lentement vidé son sac à dos de toute nourriture. Il ne lui restait plus qu’à manger ce que la forêt voudrait bien lui offrir. De plus en plus, il se sentait attiré par sa propre chair ; il se mordillait les mains nues, sans toutefois oser en venir jusqu’au sang chaud. La seule pensée qui lui redonnait une faible lueur de courage, c’était son père. Son père. Son père qui était là, peut-être tout près, mourant et pourchassé. Il voulait le retrouver, le sauver, et avec lui, la réponse à son énigme. Il n’osait même plus sortir le morceau de miroir de sa poche, de peur de l’échapper et de le perdre à jamais dans la neige. Il ne pouvait plus compter sur son reflet, même mutilé et creusé, pour trouver un semblant de réconfort, une petite chaleur, une flamme capable de fondre le glaçon de doute, de résignation et d’oubli qui commençait à envelopper sa conviction. Au fur et à mesure que les journées se succédaient, le jour semblable à la nuit, le grain de folie et de peur semé en lui germait, grandissait, fleurissait. Cette fleur, cette mauvaise herbe qui étouffait son espoir, il ne pouvait l’arracher. Il la redoutait, il craignait l’éclosion de ses bourgeons d’hésitation et d’abandon. Il craignait de devenir fou et il savait que s’il se laissait aller au

délire, à la fatigue et au froid, s’il criait, il perdrait conscience de ce pourquoi il était là, et il sombrerait dans une torpeur qui conduirait à une mort certaine. *** Le matin du douzième jour pointa, clair et lumineux, et avec lui arriva la fin de la forêt. Soudain pris de vertige, il s’adossa au dernier tronc d’arbre et cligna des yeux. Les branches des arbres avaient laissé des barres obliques gravées dans ses prunelles, comme s’il avait contemplé trop longtemps le soleil. Effaré, il regarda le paysage tout nouveau qui se déroulait à présent devant lui, à perte de vue. Une étendue infinie, immense, de banquise, encadrée à l’est et à l’ouest par des montagnes noirâtres aux sommets enneigés. Audessus de sa tête, le ciel s’entrouvrait, grand, infini, éternel. Le soleil, dont les rayons venaient faire scintiller la banquise, créait des puits de lumière à travers les nuages. Il se sentait tout petit, insignifiant, seul au milieu de cette immensité, cette roche et cette eau, cette nature forte, fière et à l’état brut. Il se sentait fondre comme un bloc de glace au milieu de cet océan de minéral et de neige. Lui et ce paysage, ils ne formaient plus qu’un. Ils étaient un seul et même individu. Le souffle court, il tournait la tête en tous sens, cherchant à percer les secrets de cette nature brute. Sous ses pieds, la glace, lisse, pure et laquée reflétait telle un miroir son image. Curieux, il s’agenouilla et examina son reflet. Derrière ces joues caves et ce teint pâle et malsain, derrière ces cheveux sales et ces lèvres gercées, il se reconnaissait. Sous ces paupières lourdes de fatigue, au fond de ces prunelles où luisait la folie, une étincelle de sa malignité d’autrefois pparaissait encore. C’était bien lui. Au fond, il était toujours le même. Rassuré par cette pensée, il contempla cette surface polie sur laquelle il se tenait. Ici, plus besoin de miroir, son visage se dessinait sur toutes les facettes des cristaux de glace qui pendaient des roches, ses traits étaient sculptés dans la montagne, et même la neige scintillait avec le même éclat que ses pupilles. Il n’avait plus besoin de se chercher, de se reconnaître, il était découvert, mis à nu devant lui-même, entouré de son reflet. Les

poumons dilatés, il respirait cet air vif et pur, et avec chacune de ses inspirations, il sentait une nouvelle vie insufflée en lui. Sur sa droite et sa gauche, il percevait la force des montagnes, qui se répandait et le traversait, comme un courant électrique, et le faisait frissonner. Mais il n’avait plus froid. Il n’avait plus faim. Entouré par les massifs qui lui formaient un bouclier de chaque côté, il avançait. Quelque part au fond de lui, il savait que son père était passé par là. Il sentait sa présence frémir sous ses pas. Il savait que sa destination, les dernières pièces de son casse-tête, se trouvaient là, tout près, juste au-delà de l’horizon. Il pouvait y arriver. Il devait l’atteindre. La neige, en quittant la forêt, avait progressivement cessé de tomber, et les nuages avaient laissé place à un soleil qui le suivait, l’encourageait, et lui envoyait des clins d’œil que la banquise multipliait. Il se sentait en paix avec lui-même, en paix avec le monde. Cette terre qu’il foulait du pied, c’était sa terre, et il la sentait vibrer sous ses pieds, l’accueillant. Cette joie qu’il éprouvait, elle dépassait son corps, elle l’entourait, le transportait. Il entendait les voix de la banquise, de la neige et des montagnes s’unir en un seul et même chant mélodieux, un chant de courage et un chant de force. Sa symphonie. Il se sentait complet, plein, uni avec cette terre qui le reconnaissait et qui l’embrassait. Ils étaient enfin réunis. *** Il admirait, émerveillé, cette terre qu’il venait de retrouver, cette éternelle symétrie sans un défaut, lorsque les contours d’un objet se dessinèrent soudain contre l’horizon, brisant seuls cette unité parfaite. Intrigué, il s’en approcha à grands pas et découvrit un empilement de pierres assemblées sous la forme d’une personne. Il fut frappé par l’harmonie parfaite de la construction, chaque roche supportant les unes et prenant son appui sur les autres. Le même équilibre que celui des montagnes et de la banquise était présent dans ces pierres. Elles étaient anciennes, leur surface lisse et noire était parsemée de nuances vertes et orangées. Il resta un moment

dans la plus profonde contemplation, cherchant à s’imprégner entièrement de cet équilibre parfait. Alors qu’il examinait plus attentivement le monument, il eut l’impression que l’homme de pierre cherchait à lui transmettre le chemin à suivre. La plus longue pierre qui faisait office de bras pointait vers l’est. Il décida de suivre cette direction. Ayant marché pendant quelques temps en absolue confiance, il se retrouva face à une paroi en granit irrégulière qui constituait le flanc d’une montagne. Une cavité dans la roche, causée par un éboulement ou une érosion, dessinait l’entrée de ce qui paraissait être une cave. Voûtant légèrement le dos, il y pénétra et découvrit une petite grotte de pierre, à peine suffisante pour loger deux personnes. Les pierres qu’il foulait du pied étaient lisses et usées, comme si elles avaient servi de support et de siège à bien d’autres avant lui. Dans un coin, les restes d’un feu sur quelques mousses et lichens secs lui indiquèrent que ce refuge avait abrité récemment un voyageur. Alors qu’il s’apprêtait à retourner au dehors à la recherche de quelque combustible végétal pour commencer un feu, son regard tomba sur un objet rectangulaire, camouflé entre deux roches. Il se pencha et en délogea un livre. Un livre volumineux, posé là, nonchalamment, comme si une cave perdue dans le grand Nord était l’endroit tout naturel pour entreposer un livre d’enfant. Car c’était, en effet, un livre documenté et illustré pour les petits lecteurs. Ses yeux s’arrêtèrent sur la couverture attrayante de l’ouvrage, où l’image de la toundra était peinte avec des couleurs vives et éblouissantes. Le titre, orné de dorures, était écrit dans une langue qu’il ne connaissait pas. Complètement absorbé dans son extase, il oublia son intention initiale d’allumer un feu. Il se concentra donc sur les illustrations et, s’asseyant sur une pierre, il se mit à parcourir l’œuvre. Les pages étaient épaisses et lustrées, et faisaient ressortir encore plus les couleurs chatoyantes des dessins. Soudain, ses mains se mirent à trembler. Il y avait, là, au bas de la page, en-dessous du logo de la maison d’édition, une signature. La signature de son père. L’encre bleue avait taché la date

d’impression du livre. Il devinait, plus qu’il ne lisait, le nom de son père sous l’écriture minuscule, mal formée et inesthétique, cette écriture qu’il connaissait si bien. Son père était donc bel et bien passé par là. À en juger par l’état des cendres sur le tapis de mousse, il n’était pas parti depuis longtemps. Un soupir de soulagement emplit sa poitrine : il n’avait pas encore été trouvé par la police, et il semblait savoir vers où il se dirigeait. Avait-il laissé tomber ce livre ? Ou l’avait-il délibérément placé là, dans cette petite grotte, sachant que son fils allait suivre ses pas et le ramasser ? Son cœur se mit à cogner fort contre sa poitrine et il se mit à feuilleter avidement, de ses mains tremblantes, l’album coloré de son père. Sous ses yeux, des paysages rocambolesques se formaient, montrant des falaises hautes, de la mousse rouge et des brindilles recouvrant une terre majoritairement rocheuse, laissant paraître çà et là des traces de neige et de bandes de terre. Ces scènes s’animaient sous le pinceau du peintre doué qui les avait reproduites. Ces décors extravagants étaient animés de la même puissance que cette terre sur laquelle il se trouvait. En tournant les pages, des animaux étrangers à ses yeux prenaient vie ; ils étaient les habitants de ce territoire. Certains étaient terribles et majestueux, d’autres étaient plus petits et semblaient rusés et alertes. Tous avaient des yeux énergiques et résolus, qui le fixaient avec une sorte de défiance amicale. De petits oiseaux aux plumes bleues, oranges et beiges voltigeaient, insouciants et légers, entre les branches de grands arbres blancs. Au fur et à mesure qu’il avançait dans le livre, des esquisses d’hommes et de femmes apparaissaient, habillés chaudement dans des peaux tannées et décorées, leurs chevelures sombres ornées de plumes. De la peinture à base de plantes et d’herbes marbrait leur peau rouge bronzée de couleurs pétillantes. Ils semblaient être à la fois bête et oiseau, à la fois herbe et montagne. Ils semblaient une réunion de tous les éléments de ce nouveau territoire qu’il découvrait. Il les dévorait des yeux, s’attardant sur chacun de leurs visages qu’ils levaient vers lui avec bienveillance. Une grosse perle humide roula sur sa joue. Ces gens, ils étaient sa famille, sa nation et il devait les retrouver. Les dernières pièces de son identité venaient enfin de s’assembler. Il savait où il appartenait.

*** Une détonation. Des voix d’hommes. Des aboiements de chiens. Si absorbé dans sa rêverie, il ne s’était pas rendu compte des bruits de pas qui s’étaient rapprochés. La police était là, tout près. Elle l’avait trouvé. Elle avait dû suivre la construction de pierres et ses chiens avaient rapidement flairé sa chair et suivi ses traces. La neige, qui avait depuis longtemps cessé de tomber, n’avait plus camouflé ni son odeur, ni les traces de ses pas. Lentement, il se leva, le livre serré fort contre sa poitrine. Il ne chercha même pas de cachette dans cette cave trop petite ; il savait qu’il n’avait aucune chance de filer entre les mailles de leurs filets—du moins, pas pour le moment. Curieusement, il n’avait pas peur. Il se sentait protégé par la pierre de la montagne qui l’entourait et qui semblait se resserrer autour de lui. Il était prêt à les affronter. Son seul regret, c’était qu’il devrait attendre encore avant de pouvoir partir à la recherche des illustrations, de sa famille, et de son père. Mais il savait que, tôt ou tard, il les retrouverait. Les voix rudes des hommes se rapprochaient alors que les silhouettes des chiens apparaissaient à l’entrée du renfoncement rocheux. Au dernier instant, alors que les chiens s’apprêtaient à franchir l’entrée et à lui sauter au cou, un morceau de papier quadrillé déchiré s’échappa d’entre deux pages du livre qu’il tenait toujours contre son cœur. Il virevolta quelques instants dans l’air avant d’atterrir sur la roche rougeâtre. Il le ramassa vivement. Sur le dos de la feuille, son père avait griffonné à l’encre noire un mot, un seul. « Ammagaruqnik » Son nom.

Woman and Child by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Boy and Whale by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Climate Change in the Arctic: It Matters, Even though it’s Far Away Written by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student, Organizer, Editor & non-Indigenous participant Edited & translated by Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student, Chief Editor & non-Indigenous participant Numerous satellite photos bear witness to the diminishing circumference of the Arctic coast, which has occurred rapidly over the past few decades. Since 1980, the polar ice has gotten 40% thinner, and lost 3 million square kilometres of its surface. This is a direct result of global warming, which is particularly amplified in the world’s poles. And the future does not look good: some of the most pessimistic scientists are predicting summers completely devoid of ice, in the Arctic by 2030. But why should we care about such a faraway, inaccessible and relatively tiny region of the planet? As a matter of fact, there are significant environmental, political and social reasons for us to care a lot. Perhaps the most obvious reasons for caring are environmental. In most systems, drastic changes in one place can have drastic, potentially unforeseen repercussions elsewhere. The Arctic is not a closed system, so changes there will sooner or later be felt across the globe. For instance, the water liberated by melting glaciers will increase sea levels all over the world. Likewise, the melting of permafrost ice emits greenhouse gases that add to, and accelerate, global warming. Moreover, the precious ecosystem of the Arctic may be distant, but it is beautiful and unique. The rapid changes happening today will do significant, long-lasting damage on that ecosystem. Right now, the Arctic Ocean is in a careful state of balance, stratified by regional differences in temperature, salt content, and density. This stratification is important for the exchange of

nutrients between different ocean layers, and thus, for the growth and flourishing of phytoplankton. Perhaps this seems a bit technical and obscure, but phytoplankton are at the base of the Arctic food web. Changing the conditions of the ocean they live in will have repercussions on them, and these will cause further repercussions on the rest of the ecosystem. Ultimately, this will lead to some species disappearing completely, as they are accustomed with the extreme Arctic conditions and can live nowhere else. You are probably familiar with the emblematic polar bears: these proud creatures are seriously at risk of extinction. On a geopolitical level, the melting of Arctic ice opens up hereto-unnavigable zones of the Arctic ocean. These areas are potentially strategic in that they represent opportunities for commerce, as well as tourism and the exploitation of natural resources. According to an American study, this includes 22% of the world’s stock of unexploited hydrocarbon fuel (oil, natural gas, etc.). Not only would the exploitation of this region lead to further environmental repercussions, but the Arctic territory’s desirability is not necessarily conducive to peace. In fact, it is already at the origin of numerous confrontations between countries on the Arctic Council, as well as the remilitarisation of certain regions. Russia has developed a whole new generation of nuclear icebreakers. Whilst China doesn’t even border the Arctic, this country is integrating polar maritime routes in its new silk road project. Perhaps making the Arctic into a natural reserve, safe from territorial dispute, would be the best option. In any case, the changes happening there make it more and more sought-after… and this poses risks. Finally, we must not forget that the Arctic region is inhabited by approximately 120 000 Inuit. The changing terrain will have a drastic and inevitable impact on their way of life. Permafrost degradation threatens the infrastructure of many of their villages, which have been created on stilts in order to adapt to the climate. Moreover, as the ecosystems around them change, so does the environment from which many still derive their subsistence. Notably, the

fishing season is rendered less predictable, and more dangerous, by the thinning of the ice. A similar thing occurs with hunting as reindeer populations are forced into different migration paths. As Inuit are forced increasingly to abandon fishing and hunting, they lose their traditional way of life. Thus, the changing environment is not only bad for food security, but for culture. It endangers both Inuit lives, and the Inuit lifestyle. In sum, the melting of Arctic ice has terrible consequences on multiple dimensions of the environment, international politics, and the Inuit peoples who live in that region. These consequences are already being felt, and they will worsen if we do not do anything. Some innovative solutions are already being proposed: one ecologist, named Zimov, envisages recreating the Arcticâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s prehistoric ecosystem, and one engineer, named Field, has invented so-called microspheres out of silicon and oxygen, which could reflect the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rays in order to protect unmelted ice. However, the fight against global warming will most likely require more than a few great ideas. The most efficient solutions will be united, community-led actions. That means that all of us have a role to play.

Note: Regarding lack of citations, please accept our apologies! This is an informal essay, based on an essay that Anne wrote several years ago in French. Trust that she did research at the time. And feel free to do more research on your own!

Collision by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Historical Focus: On the Inuit By Michael Minello, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant The Inuit have been victim to a deplorable amount of trauma. Functioning as “human flagpoles” (Vowel, 2016), these peoples were forcibly relocated across northern Canada, in order to serve the self-interest of the federal government. In particular, these relocations served to free up land for colonial expansion, claim territory for Canada, and hunt beavers for the fur trade (Vowel, 2016). It was believed at the time that these relocations “were in the best interests of the Inuit” (Vowel, 2016). However, the Inuit were never consulted, nor were these relocations beneficial to them (Vowel, 2016). Shipped to foreign lands scarce in wildlife, and small in landmass, many Inuit struggled to survive. These involuntary relocations put the Inuit “in a constant state of crisis,” with continued repercussions today (Vowel, 2016). Notably, these crises spawned the modern stereotypes that regard the Inuit as damaged, dysfunctional, and unable to manage their affairs (Khatchadourian, 2020). The Canadian federal government is also responsible for the inexcusable slaughter of the qimmit, the Inuit sled dogs (Vowel, 2018). Among the chaos of relocation, many qimmit either died of starvation, or were slaughtered by the RCMP (Vowel, 2018). It is theorized that the dogs were killed in order to prevent the Inuit from leaving their assigned territory (Vowel, 2018). Whether or not this was completely deliberate, it is clear that the qimmit are vital to the Inuit’s “independence, self-reliance, and identity” (Vowel, 2018). By slaughtering the dogs, the government attacked Inuit culture and ways of life. As such, it was another violent attempt at assimilation.

Watt-Cloutier's The Right to be Cold Written by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student, Organizer, Editor & non-Indigenous participant On November 3rd, 2020, researcher Marion Hourdequin from Colorado College gave a talk hosted by GRÉA (Groupe de Recherche en Éthique Environnementale et Animale) that explored climate ethics, through a 2015 book by Inuit activist Sheila Watt-Cloutier: The Right to be Cold. Hourdequin commenced with an overview of the book’s subject matter, which recounts the author’s journey into adulthood. In The Right to be Cold, WattCloutier describes witnessing the profound changes in the structure and lifestyle of her community. In the second half of the twentieth century, Inuit communities experienced a rapid shift from a mostly nomadic, hunting population to a more settled, trapping and trading community. This also made them more dependent on the South for their economic livelihood. Watt-Cloutier notes that sledge dogs, once central to hunting, had been replaced by snow mobiles in her community. Watt-Cloutier also speaks to an emerging concern: the contamination of traditional foods, due to the bioaccumulation of pollutants in marine mammals. This has reduced her community’s consumption of traditional foods, and therefore greatly impacted the community’s well-being. To Inuits, food is not only necessary to meet the body’s physical needs in an Arctic environment, but also plays a spiritual and communal role. To address persistent organic pollutants in the Arctic, Watt-Cloutier initiated a campaign, and wrote a humanitarian petition advocating that “the well-being of our environment is in itself a fundamental human right. Without a stable, safe climate, people cannot exercise their economic, social or cultural rights” (xviii). The petition was shared at the Montreal UNFCCC COP and submitted to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights in December 2005.

Although it was denied, Marion Hourdequin argues that it was still successful in the sense that it challenges abstract and ideal conceptions of climate justice, and foregrounds the contextual and relational dimensions of climate impacts. Indeed, climate change as experienced by Arctic communities cannot be understood in isolation from its historical context: that of colonialism. In a sense, climate change is in itself a colonial problem that must be reframed from an Indigenous perspective as the continuity of a single story linking people and the land under colonial exploitation. An ethical response to climate change thus involves â&#x20AC;&#x153;repairing relations, attending to historical injustices and current contexts, and enabling more equitable distributions of powerâ&#x20AC;? (Hourdequin). The appeal of the book also resides in its universalism. Watt-Cloutier calls for cooperation among communities to solve internationally-based problems. For instance, the plastic waste that accumulates in the Arctic has arrived there from all parts of the world. Moreover, Watt-Cloutier uses a familiar human rights framework strategically, in order to convey the concerns of Inuit communities in a way that is intelligible to non-Indigenous people. WattCloutier, Hourdequin suggests, becomes a connected critic, as theorized by Michael Walzer, who grounds her criticism and arguments for social change upon premises shared by many groups. Hourdequin also defends that human rights as understood by Indigenous peoples is not an anthropocentric view, but rather, encompasses the environment, with which First Nations have a deep connection. The Right to be Cold, then, is both the right of the Arctic peoples and that of the Arctic territory.

Halloween Costumes that Perpetuate Oppression By Michael Minello, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant The portrayal of the ‘sexy’ variant of any fictional character can spark controversy and cringe, be it a sexy Snow White or a temptress Cinderella. However, it is crucial to recognize that some of these ‘costumes’ are not really costumes, but rather, manifestations of a deeply discriminatory past. This is the case for Pocahontas, whose Westernized portrayal is a perverse representation of Indigenous peoples’ historical oppression. Today, Indigenous women face a lot of hardship. They have been victims to an unwavering amount of sexual assault, spousal violence, and lateral violence, among other things (Monchalin, 2016). This “paternalistic assault” on Indigenous women has been met with ignorance and discrimination within Canada’s Criminal Justice system. Even now, Indigenous women are more likely to be incarcerated than their non-Indigenous counterparts (Monchalin, 2016). Their stories are also less likely to be heard (Monchalin, 2016). However, Indigenous women have not always been subject to violence. Before colonial contact, many Indigenous communities were matriarchal (Monchalin, 2016). Indigenous women were often in positions of power equal to, or greater than, those of men (Monchalin, 2016). So, what changed? When settlers from Europe arrived to colonize and assimilate Indigenous communities, their competitive systems greatly contrasted the Indigenous “egalitarian, communal, and peaceful” way of governance (Monchalin, 2016). Moreover, they were thoroughly patriarchal. The politics they brought with them had an impact on Indigenous communities that persists today: arguably, this led to problematic, often hyper-sexualized representations of Indigenous women in the public eye.

The ‘squaw’: a faceless, unfeeling, and dirty depiction of Indigenous women, contrasts the ‘Indian princess’: a lustful, skimpy, and sexy portrayal of the same ethnic group. However, both have served to dehumanize Indigenous women, and render them more susceptible to both physical and sexual violence (Monchalin, 2016). Unfortunately, both extremes of this binary are still present and acceptable in mainstream media today. Hollywood’s portrayal of Indigenous peoples has been so influential that it led many to believe that these depictions are grounded in fact (Reel Injun, 2009). In the Silent Film era, Indigenous peoples, both men and women, appeared mostly in roles like the heroic chief, or the savage ‘Indian,’ brought to slaughter (Reel Injun, 2009). Furthermore, actors' costumes were offensively inaccurate. They appeared wearing eccentric headbands on inappropriate occasions, skimpy dresses when playing the notorious stereotype of the ‘Indian princess,’ and of course, faces painted red (Reel Injun, 2009). These depictions normalized the harmful portrayal of Indigenous peoples that continues today (Reel Injun, 2009). Taking all of this into account, one can begin to discuss the implications of dressing up as ‘Sexy Pocahontas’. This costume goes far beyond a fictitious character, because Pocahontas, the 12-year-old Indigenous girl who in fact was real, has been contorted and romanticized by the Western world into the sexy fantasy we now know (Monchalin, 2016). This costume is no Snow White or Cinderella. Instead, it is a perpetuation of the stereotypes, the marginalization, the subjugation, the misogyny, and the commercialization of Indigenous women in Western society. In sum, the lack of awareness and education about these matters within Western civilization continues to normalize the oppression of Indigenous women. It is crucial to recognize that there is an unspoken history behind that ‘costume’. It would be advisable to consider its historic significance before wearing it. You will most likely find that it’s best not to do so at all.

Land Acknowledgements: Each of us prepared at least one land acknowledgement for our Circles. You've probably heard land acknowledgements before, but writing our own was... different. We decided to share them in this booklet, in order to give you a sense of just how meaningful and diverse land acknowledgements can be: I would like to acknowledge the Kanien’kehá:ka Nation. They are the custodians of the unceded lands and waters on which we gather today in order to learn and grow. Tiohtià:ke/Montréal is historically known as a gathering place for many First Nations. Growing up as an immigrant child here, I never heard the traditional names of the territories, and only learned of the struggles of Indigenous people in the past tense. Yet it is so easy to forget when we historicize. This time of year, when the leaves turn red, I think about a Huron-Wendat legend: how Deer injured Bear in the first-ever skirmish between animals. I am lucky that my childhood was infused with traditional tales, from a storybook on Quebec Indigenous legends that I received from my mother. Today, during this Circle, I would like to take the opportunity to commit myself to the struggle against the systems of oppression that have dispossessed Indigenous people of their lands, and denied them their rights to selfdetermination. I honour the memory of the Great Peace of 1701, a treaty that fostered peaceful relationships between France, its Indigenous allies and the Haudenosaunee federation. I hope that the same spirit of fraternity and goodwill permeates our discussions today.

- Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student, Organizer, Editor & non-Indigenous participant

I live on a farm which tends to the gift of land, traditional land, Treaty one territory. Land. Land which fed and housed and kept the Anishinaabe, the Cree, the Dakota, as well as the birthplace of the Metis Nation and the Heart of the Metis Homeland. I live here in gratitude to this land, and to the people with whom it is linked.

- Bonnie Loewen, non-Indigenous facilitator from Manitoba

Crying Eyes by Anne Lin Arghirescu

The electricity powering this farm comes from generating stations on rivers in Treaty 1, 3 and 5 lands. Terms of the Northern Flood Agreement with 5 Indigenous communities in Northern Manitoba remain unfulfilled. As a treaty people, we need to listen to the often-neglected voices of our land and our rivers. These voices are, and should be, sacred.

- Bonnie Loewen, non-Indigenous facilitator from Manitoba

I acknowledge that I am on unceded lands of the Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) peoples, part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy. There is a strong presence of Indigenous peoples in Tio’tiake, also known as Montreal. I want to thank these custodians of the lands and waters that I live on, and around. I strive to leave the land as I found it. Moreover, I strive to learn about the history of colonization, violence and broken promises, in order to work towards reconciliation.

- Victoria Baer, second-year Health Science student & non-Indigenous participant

I based my land acknowledgements on land acknowledgements from Western University. As I live just minutes away from their campus, I knew that these would reflect our territory in an authentic manner. I prefer the one that reflects all the treaties that my people have been involved with: I acknowledge that we are on the traditional lands of the Anishinaabek (Ahnish-in-a-bek), Haudenosaunee (Ho-den-no-show-nee), Lūnaapéewak (Lenahpay-wuk) and Attawandaron (Add-a-won-da-run) peoples, on lands connected with the London Township and Sombra Treaties of 1796 and the Dish with One Spoon Covenant Wampum. This land continues to be home to diverse Indigenous peoples (e.g., First Nations, Métis, and Inuit) whom we recognize as contemporary stewards of the land and vital contributors of our society.

- Tammy Cadue, Indigenous facilitator & Métis from Ontario

Land acknowledgment that Bonnie read to us during our last Circle. Words by Robin Wall Kimmerer, in Braiding Sweet Grass: “(Ceremonies) honour our responsibilities for all we have been given, for all that we have taken. It’s our turn. now, long overdue. Let us hold a give away for Mother Earth, spread our blankets for her and pile them high with gifts of our own making. Imagine the books, the paintings, the poems, the clever machines, the compassionate acts, the transcendent ideas, the perfect tools. The fierce defense of all that has been given. Gifts of the mind, hands, heart, voice and vision all offered up on behalf of the earth. Whatever our gift, we are called to give and to dance for the renewal of the world.”

Contemporaine by Anne Lin Arghirescu

I would like to acknowledge that we are on land that does not belong to, and was never given to, us. The Kanien’kehá:ka Nation have lived on and watched over this land for many generations. What we call Montreal, they call Tiohtià:ke, a place where different Indigenous groups have gathered. I would also like to delve a little deeper into the history of our school. Marianopolis College was founded by the Congregation de Notre-Dame, a congregation of nuns founded by French settler Marguerite Bourgeoys in 1653. Bourgeoys was important at her time, because she did a lot for the education of women. However, she also represents many of the evils of settler-colonialism. On this island, she founded a school to assimilate Indigenous girls; to strip them of their culture. The history of the Congregation itself is also intertwined with the expropriation of the lands of the Kanien’kehá:ka people. In fact, the land that the government claimed during the Oka Crisis in 1990 was sold to them in the late 19th century. It was sold not by the Kanien’kehá:ka people, but by the Sulpicians, which the Congregation de Notre-Dame had joined in 1701. This congregation had founded a mission on Kanien’kehá:ka traditional land, but decided that it was their land to sell. The legacy of the Congregation de Notre-Dame is one of both assimilation and land-confiscation. Because the Congregation de Notre-Dame also founded our college, we cannot and should not attempt to extricate Marianopolis from these historical woes. We would not be here today without the congregation - yet this same congregation also did a lot of harm. When we gather at Marianopolis today, upon unceded Kanien’kehá:ka land, let us remember that these histories are intertwined. Let us remember this so that we can be our best, most conscientious selves: grounded in history, but hopeful about the future, and determined to keep bringing about change.

- Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student Chief Editor & non-Indigenous participant

Mauvaise herbe by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Bibliography Michael's Essays: Battiste, Marie. “Reframing the Humanities: From Cognitive Assimilation to Cognitive Justice.” Visioning A Mi’kmaw Humanities: Indigenizing the Academy. Sydney, Nova Scotia: Cape Breton University Press, 2016. "Indigenous in the City." 8th Fire, created by Ryszard Hunka, performance(s) by Wab Kinew, season 1 episode 1, CBC, 2013. Khatchadourian, Annie. “Week 12 – Northwest Coast Perspectives.” Indigenous Cultures in Canada: 345-102-MQ, Marianopolis College, 29 Apr. 2020, Westmount. Lecture. King, Thomas. ““You’ll Never Believe What Happened” Is Always a Great Way to Start.” Read.Listen.Tell: Indigenous Stories from Turtle Island. Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2017. Monchalin, Lisa. “The Impact of Assimilation: Residential Schools and Intergenerational Trauma.” The Colonial Problem: An Indigenous Perspective on Crime and Injustice in Canada. University of Toronto Press, 2016. Monchalin, Lisa. “Violence Affecting Indigenous Women: Struggle, Sexualization, and Subjugation.” The Colonial Problem: An Indigenous Perspective on Crime and Injustice in Canada. University of Toronto Press, 2016. Reel Injun. Neil Diamond, Rezolution Pictures, 2009. Sellars, Bev. “Workarounds and Memorials: early effects of the Indian Act, 1876 to 1920s.” Price Paid: The Fight for First Nations Survival. Talonbooks, 2016. "Stewards of the Land." Working It Out Together, created by Tracey Deer, Waneek Horn-Miller & Keith Morgan, performance(s) by Waneek Horn-Miller, Season 3 Episode 3, 2016. Vowel, Chelsea. “Human Flagpoles: Inuit Relocation.” Indigenous Writes: A Guide to First Nations, Metis & Inuit Issues in Canada. HighWater Press, 2016.

For Sofia's Essay on Treaties and the Indian Act: Currie, Raymond F. “Respect, Trust, Treaties and Reconciliation.” Circles for Reconciliation, 2020, https://circlesforreconciliation.ca/wpcontent/uploads/2020/04/Respect-Trust-Treaties-Reconciliation.pdf. Joseph, Bob. 21 Things You May not Know about the Indian Act: Helping Canadians Make Reconciliation with Indigenous Peoples a Reality. Indigenous Relations Press, 2018. Logan, Tricia. “Treaties: Our Nation to Nation Partnerships.” Circles for Reconciliation, June 2020, https://circlesforreconciliation.ca/gathering-themetreaties-our-nation-to-nation-partnerships/. Patzer, Jeremy. “The Indian Act: Disempowering, Assimilatory and Exclusionary.” Circles for Reconciliation, November 2020, https://circlesforreconciliation.ca/gathering-theme-the-indian-actdisempowering-assimilatory-and-exclusionary-revised/. Simpson, Leanne. “Looking after Gdoo-naaganinaa: Precolonial Nishnaabeg Diplomatic and Treaty Relationships.” Wicazo Sa Review, vol. 23, no. 2, Minnesota UP, Fall 2008, pp. 29-42. Project Muse, DOI: 10.1353/wic.0.0001.

For Sofia's Land Acknowledgement: Jackson, Sydni Marie. ”Unsettling the History of Saint Marguerite Bourgeoys.” The Link, The Link Publication Society, Dec. 19 2018, https://thelinknewspaper.ca/article/unsettling-the-history-of-saint-margueritebourgeoys. I would also like to thank Professor D. Chew for her lecture on the New Imperialism, which gave me many facts, as well as the methodological understanding I used for this piece.

Thank you for reading this booklet! We hope it has given you something, if only an appetite for more learning...

Surely, that appetite for learning is the first step towards justice and truth; towards Reconciliation.