The Great Burns of Soul are still waiting for Madame Justice
Canadian flags flutter proudly in the skies, brilliantly announcing the 156 years of the creation of Canadian Confederation. At this time of year, countless resources are mobilized to light up the country with festivities and spectacular fireworks. On this day, the” O Canada ” self-congratulates. On this day, the” O Canada ” claims to be a champion of human rights. On this day, the” O Canada ” proclaims himself a fervent defender of justice. On this day, in Canada, residential school survivors Indians die while waiting for Madame Justice's maple sweetness.
On this day, La Converse focuses on the quest for justice and reconciliation through the eyes of those burnt out in their souls.
A testimony at the origin of thousands of complaints
In 2023, we are also commemorating the 15 years since the establishment of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement (CRRPI). This grim convention is the culmination of a series of painful events triggered by the powerful testimony of Phil Fontaine, former Chief of the Assembly of First Nations, who courageously shared his experience in residential schools in 1991.
This testimony prompted a series of disputes against the Canadian government and several churches in the country, leading to 11 class actions and approximately 15,000 individual complaints until 2007. The government found itself overwhelmed by the volume of procedures and decided to put in place a process called “Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR)”. However, this process has been criticized for neglecting the important contributions and suggestions that emerged from the Exploratory Dialogues, held over the years. It has been perceived as reductive and arduous by indigenous communities, activists, and universities.
Under pressure from the Assembly of First Nations (AFN) and other organizations, the government began discussions for a settlement agreement in June 2005, with the appointment of Frank Iacobucci. To ensure that Indigenous voices were represented at the bargaining table, Phil Fontaine and the AFN filed a class action known as Fontaine. c. Canada in August 2005. Negotiations progressed rapidly due to political instability resulting from the minority nature of Paul Martin's government. An agreement in principle was reached on 20 November 2005, thanks to the passage of Belinda Stronach from the Liberal side in the House of Commons. Negotiations surrounding the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement (CRRPI) were finalized in August 2006, and the implementation process was launched in court on September 19, 2007.
The CRRPI is therefore the result of an agreement between former student lawyers, the Assembly of First Nations, other Aboriginal organizations, church lawyers and the Government of Canada. This Convention is at the origin of the famous Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC) as well as two payment systems intended to compensate the victims of these institutions.
The first system is the Common Experience Payment (CEP), which consists of “a lump-sum payment recognizing residential school experiences and their consequences.” This sum recognizes the suffering and trauma experienced by former students.
The second system is the Independent Assessment Process (IAP), which provides “a non-adversarial and claimant-oriented framework for the alternative resolution of claims related to sexual abuse, serious physical abuse, and other wrongdoing suffered at Indian residential schools.” This process allows victims to present their claims and receive fair compensation.
From 2008 to 2012, thousands of people filed claims for compensation, seeking recognition of the suffering and injustice suffered in residential schools in Canada. The process was long and arduous, with the last compensation cases being registered in March 2021.
“The government is simply looking for a good conscience”
Among those who have made this difficult journey is Anne Rock, whose story has deep scars. She spent a childhood marked by turmoil in the Catholic school in Uashat mak Mani-utenam, trapped in the clutches of the institution for seven long years. She heard about government compensation for former residents on a community radio program in 2008.
Arriving at the end of this long and painful process, Anne is faced with a receipt on which she is asked to sign. By signing this document, the survivor can no longer sue the federal government and the church responsible for her suffering in civil court in order to obtain compensation. She signs while crying. She explains that at that moment, the government officials who stand in front of her are turning into nuns in her mind. The memories are resurfacing, and the faces of those who caused her suffering are mixed with the faces of those who now claim to offer redress.
Although this process “gave her a slap in the face to open a buried drawer”, Anne can't help but feel immense sadness and anger when she signed this receipt. She explains to us that it is as if someone were telling her rudely: “You won't be able to go any further. You won't be able to sue the priest or anyone else. Close your mouth and accept what we are giving you. We will provide you with a lawyer and pretend to help you with these procedures.”
Now aged 63, this courageous woman confides in her sincerity. No amount of money can ever truly heal his wounds. “The government is trying to buy us, thinking that by paying a few bills, everything will be erased. But no, the frustrations, the anger, they will remain anchored in us forever. Even if we were given millions, the effects would remain in our feelings, in our minds, and in our families. It's all broken. These deep wounds, these scars, they will never be erased,” she confides bitterly. “The government is simply trying to give itself a good conscience,” adds Anne in the face of these appearances of “reconciliation.”
Looking back on her experience with both payment systems (PEC and PEI), she asks herself a question: “What is the price of a broken life?” ” Anne Rock questions the very existence of justice. “They destroyed my life, my marriage, my spirit, my identity as an Innu woman. I could have grown up in the Nutshimit (territory) and acquire all the skills and knowledge of our ancestors... My children and grandchildren still bear the heavy consequences of these traumas. Lives have been shattered. No, there was no justice,” she said.
“I was turned off, and I saw my children die too”
This view of the institution of justice is shared by Anne Rock's sister, Muriel, who also received compensation under the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement.. “How far did they take us? Can they only measure the extent of our extinction? Do they really understand what I'm talking about? I am the one who knows how I was reduced to nothing. I was turned off, and I saw my children die too,” she notes with immense bitterness.
She initially reacted negatively to compensation, constantly questioning the value placed on Aboriginal suffering. “I thought we were being fooled. We had to refuse, but we had to do it in groups, as communities. But the reaction of my colleagues was that if we refused, it was over. The government would never go back on it,” she reports, her heart clenched by a painful sense of injustice.
Beyond the exhausting administrative procedures, the most heartbreaking aspect of receiving the compensation was experiencing again, in front of government officials, the horror she had experienced. “When I started to tell, I hid my face, tears flowed, tears flowed, it lasted several minutes,” she says in a broken voice, plunged into the turmoil of her dark memories.
This feeling of powerlessness haunts her throughout the process. For her, it was a lost cause long before the receipt was signed. Muriel explains that the position of a significant number of members of her community leaves little room for objection or challenge to the proposed conditions. “People in the communities were in a hurry to receive their money. They couldn't wait. We know the heartbreaking reality of poverty in our communities. Receiving $3,000 is a drop in the bucket in a life of misery. For me, it was like a losing battle, an additional wound,” she said with emotion, her voice deeply marked by bitterness. She explains that she finally gave in and signed, because she felt alone, abandoned in the face of a system that did not seem to understand her real suffering, her real loss.
“How do we know we got justice? ”
Like the Rock sisters, the Kistabish brothers both received compensation for the abuse they suffered at the Amos Aboriginal Residential School (Saint-Marc-de-Figuery).
“Money doesn't heal.” This is how Norman Kistabish, former chief of the Abitibiwinni Nation in Val-d'Or, summarizes his experience with the compensation process and the Convention. It was inspired by the courage of his brothers and sisters, who filed a lawsuit against the government and the Catholic Church that operates the boarding school in Saint-Marc-de-Figuery that, on 13 March 2005, he himself finds the courage to speak up and starts a conversation that will last more than 12 hours with his lawyer. This is the first time he has told of the horrors he has experienced. The more he talks, the more his pain comes to the surface.
Norman Kistabish sees his involvement in the court process as the beginning of his recovery. As part of the Independent Assessment Process, he recounts the abuse he experienced at residential schools over five hearings. Having received more financial compensation than most survivors, Norman insists that money can't heal all wounds. According to him, “there was no complete justice, only deception and coercion.” This feeling of incompleteness persists, and the lack remains despite everything.
But when we talk about reconciliation, Norman's face lights up with a soft, determined smile. He explains to us that his own reconciliation began long before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. “It started at home, between us,” he says with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. It is within his own family, among his friends, his community, his community, his woods, his land that he was able to change the course of his life. “I had transmitted a path of consumption to my children, but now, I am a real survivor, a fighter, in my search for well-being,” he tells us. Sitting in front of the soft flames of his candles, the 68-year-old elder gives us this message: “How do we know that we got justice? For now, I consider it to be my recovery.”
“The Great Burns of the Soul”
“We are far away in Sacrament, we are light years away from reconciliation,” says Ejinagosi Kistabish. “We always talk about healing, well healing doesn't happen. It's a complex concept, it's not a goal in itself. Healing is a journey. It's painful, you must not forget that — it's for life, the rest of your life, that you have to learn to live with it, to deal with it every day, tirelessly,” he continues in an emotional voice.
After a moment of meditation, Ejinagosi asks us in a compassionate tone: “Have you already passed through the doors of the burn hospital in Quebec City? Then, plunged back into his memories, he continues: “I went there 20 or 30 years ago. I visited this hospital because I wanted to know if severe burns could be cured. As soon as I arrived, I immediately understood that I was in the same situation as the burn victims, both physically and mentally. The patients in this hospital are not only suffering in terms of their physical appearance; what hurts is also in their heads, in their minds. Their bodies are completely mutilated. When you start talking to one of these patients, you understand the pain they are feeling.”
Ejinagosi, whose name means “the one who tells”, explains to us: “That is why I describe myself as a “great soul burn”.” In this way, he expresses his desire to rename the survivors, to call them the “great burns of the soul”., an expression that more accurately reflects their experience and the severity of their invisible scars, according to the septuagenarian.
Eight long years have passed since the doors of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission were closed. In the case of the elder Kistabish, who was a regional officer, the words come out of his mouth after careful thought: “No, you cannot claim to have obtained justice, but the TRC has done a great deal of work. In a flood, you try to predict everything, but it is impossible to assess all the damage simultaneously. The TRC did everything that was feasible, given the scale of the devastation. We save those we can.”
The Great Burned Souls, haunted by a perpetual fire, continue to await impatiently the caress of Madame Justice. In the shadow of Canadian flags, red tape deprives many former residents of the fruits of their struggle. For now, reconciliation seems to be just a fleeting echo of the fireworks that are dispelling in the skies. For their part, the Kistabish brothers and the Rock sisters are focused on their own healing and reconciliation within their community, working to rekindle the gentle flames that once animated them. They want to share their story in the hope that it will be used wisely to raise awareness and inspire resistance in others.