Practical reconciliation

Yesterday I read Taiaiake  Alfred’s provocative essay on reconciliation entitled: “Restitution is the real pathway to justice for indigenous peoples.” This will probably be a tough read for many people who are bought into the mainstream notions of reconciliation: that it’s about a state level response to specific actions without confronting a fundamental shift in the nature of the relationship  The idea of restitution is a powerful one, and today I’ve been thinking about what that means and why it is exactly the kind of call that should drive home the practical expression of reconciliation.  And I’ve been looking for hidden examples of where it is already occuring.

Today we are preparing to welcome our third Indigenous Focus cohort for the Leadership 2020 program.  This is a program that was developed by community service agencies working in child and family services.  The program ran our first cohort with leaders from this sector and they quickly recognized that they needed to train with their colleagues in the Ministry of Children and Family Services.  So we have run 8 cohorts now, seven of which have been blended cohorts with folks in the community and the ministry training together  Three of these cohorts have had an indigenous focus, which is to say that we are focused on the specific issues facing indigenous people and communities.  Participants are from many different backgrounds, ethnicities and communities but they are all working with indigenous children and families.

So that’s the context for this post.

Today my colleague Wedlidi Speck told me a story that fits in with Taiaike’s ideas, that give a clue about indigenous forms of reconciliation and restitution.  Back in the 19th century sometime, there was a massacre on the Central Coast.  Bella Coola warriors came and killed many people from the Kwikwasut’inuxw tribe.  In addition to killing many of the men, they took slaves to use and trade with other tribes. One of these slaves, Caribou Jack as he became known, was returned to the Kwikwasut’inuxw.  When he was freed, he was provided with a Kwikwasut’inuxw canoe that had been stolen and he paddled safely down the coast back to the survivors, where he was taken in and cared for.

What stands out for me in this story was how the people that released him (said to be Tsimshian) returned him freely, but also provided him with his own possessions, in good condition, which he used to get safely home.  There was no guilt in the story (and Taiaiake  writes about why).  But this was as much an act of restitution as anything.  The word in Kwa’kwala used to designate this return is “u’mista,” a word later used to name the cultural centre in Alert Bay.  The word is defined this way:

In earlier days, people were sometimes taken captive by raiding parties. When they returned to their homes, either through payment of ransom or by a raid, they were said to have u’mista. The return of our treasures from distant museums is a form of u’mista.

As a result of this restitution, it became possible for the tribes of the central and north coast to create agreements and relationships together.  Real ones.

In the work we are doing with child and family services workers, we see this happening every day.  The child welfare system is a fraught place for the practice of reconciliation.  At its worst, the system perpetuates colonization, and it is often roundly criticized for the role it plays in continuing the policies that were started in the residential school system.  And that is the story we often get, because criticizing the system and calling for its dismantlement gets a lot of airtime.

But there is a much different story that happens as well.  When it works – and that is largely up to the individual workers that make it work – the system can help restore community and families such that children can return.  The return of a child and the restitution of health and wellness to a family and a community is one practical expression of the kind of thing that Taiaiake  is writing about here.  And the fact that the people we are welcoming to Bowen Island this afternoon are right at the forefront of this work is humbling, whether they are working in family support, mental health, child protection, addictions and youth justice.  To see indigenous and non-indigenous people working together to figure out ways of engaging with better practices, with major systemic shifts and with a strong heart of justice is powerful.  It is an untold story of where restitution and reconciliation is happening every day.  A society that steals children unconsciously is fundamentally unjust, and everyone of these workers who is coming to this learning actively works to address that injustice.  It is not easy and making a mistake is dangerous.  It is not work for the faint of heart, or for those lacking courage.  But it is necessary and when it gets done well it is transformative

This is not perfect, but it has informed my views of reconciliation and helps me to see ways in which Taiaiake ‘s essay calls us to a deeper ground of engagement and personal involvement with the project of restitution in service of justice.  It’s a deep honour to see these folks struggle with it and it puts and invitation out to others.  How do you engage in the call for restitution?  How can you support the work that others are doing and where can you personally do that work too, at whatever level?