I spent 10 years in residential schools. This is what I want my grandchildren to know-صحيفة الصوت

WARNING: This article contains details of abuse.

From painful, distant memories, I can only tell you what I remember and suffered.

For our childhood, those most vulnerable and critical years in life, we were forced to live a life that was a lie. The story is not mine alone.

Every fall, children were abducted from small, scattered hunting villages or reserves. The mob — an Indian agent, RCMP, priest and a nun — arrived, picking up Cree kids. After some shoving, shouting, dogs barking and crying parents holding on to their children, police pulled out their guns. They threatened our parents and grandparents with jail time if they didn’t let us go. Some went to jail.

Parents could only watch as kids were wrestled onto buses, trains or planes. Family visits ceased. Couples hid from each other to cry.

I was six when I was sent to the Mohawk Institute Residential School run by Anglican priests in Brantford, Ont. Later I would move to the La Tuque Residential School in Quebec.

Dad said that with things left where we last played, it was as if we’d all died. Mom’s heart was ruined forever. Our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles lost a connection where children were once the centre of life. No more hugs and kisses. Little did we know, it would be the beginning of the end of many things in our Cree way of life. And the worst was yet to come.

Upon arrival, boys and girls were quickly separated for the year, older brothers in separate dorms. Rare quick waves to my sisters, but no Cree talk. Shamed, long hair chopped off and no role models around. Untrained staff barked orders; rough, vulgar wake-up calls and a rigid routine was the new norm. They carried pocket-size straps to hit us on the wrist or bare back.

Missing home hurt a lot so I lived in my own little world. No soft tents, just big brick buildings with steel stairs, high barbed-wire fences.

We witnessed sinful, criminal acts. I still freak out hearing bells, whistles, shrieks, sobbing. I hate buses, trains, planes. Anything can trigger a flashback: the mention of residential schools, the Queen, pope or religion. Nightmares, fits of anger, verbally attacking family in English or French still linger. Confused and scared, I often cried alone. I can still hear muffled cries of kids at night.

Poked with fingernails, pencils, pointers — they threw books, keys, broke wooden rulers over us, leaving scars. They slapped our heads, faces or ears, pulled our ears, nose, tongue. Red-hot hands puffed, cut by stiff straps. Cringe or move your hand, you get more.

One Cree word and you’re forced to eat soap and strapped. Punished in front of others for nothing with bare fists or kicked. So many belittled survivors are still too humiliated to speak out now.

They taught European history, art and religion. We did the laundry, cooked or were farmhands — child labour. Can’t become doctors or lawyers with that. The principals were priests, the teachers unskilled. Forced to watch The Three Stooges and cowboys killing Indians on TV.

We sang O Canada beside the Queen’s photo and the flag.

They knew us by the numbers printed on our clothing instead of our names. We’d get cold, sour food when we were starving. Eat fast or lose it.

Kill birds, squirrels to eat. Lie and steal, share a candy. Older guys stole food from gardens or the kitchen, and gave it to young ones. Raw potato is better than eating vomit. At Mohawk Mush Hole, prison food is better. There were apple trees, but we weren’t allowed to have their fruit.

Hundreds of kids, but no doctor or dentist. One old nurse who deprived us of medicine or treatment. A pedophile’s paradise. Suspicious deaths. Group showers and check ups — was it voyeurism?

LISTEN | A residential school survivor shares her experience at La Tuque Residential School.

WARNING: This audio contains details of abuse.

These fortress schools had dungeons, secret tunnels, towers, steel doors or bars, huge loud furnaces. Never question, complain or speak our Cree minds. Letters and parcels were discouraged or seized. Older guys told us if a relative died at home. No going home for funerals.

The residential school edict: Kill the Indian in the child. The first casualty is our innocence. Healing from the wounds is a lifetime process for this intergenerational contagion. Booze and drugs are the only medicine for survivors trapped amid two worlds. Time alone doesn’t heal. So many die young, never knowing peace.

The shockwave of this forced transfer into Indian child prisons is still felt by First Nations across Canada. Us Cree children are victims and our world was left behind. How do you jump back into a life you’re taught is evil?

Looking back at age 65, I see the Indian child inside me never aged. He is still dying to go home, with no desire to learn. It felt like a lifetime there.

It’s not over

In tough times, to save my skin I left behind pieces of my Indian heart — burying life’s hopes and joys along the way. In 1973, I finally escaped — jumping off a train into deep snow — but was still in Canada. I started anew, one booze party lasting decades. Friends, cousins, siblings — survivors — die young in violent deaths or suicides. And it’s not over.

For all Cree, a big part of us died during the long and cold era of residential schools. And while blocking memories you hate, good ones die too. When I was about to give up, I stumbled onto a group of elders; they whispered about a broken world.

I spend what’s left of life in the wilderness, wary of agents.

I met my wife in 1982, another residential school survivor. Not long after, I entered what would be a lifelong healing journey starting at Lac des vents, the birthplace of my fathers. I felt the wind of change; today I live sober and am blessed with four children and seven grandchildren.

We christened our first granddaughter Crying Faith.

Dad’s last Cree words to me were, “You must forgive the white man.” Easier said than done. After ethnic cleansing, it’s not the same heart.

With their children abducted, our ancestors suffered to the very end. Even after the last residential schools closed, Cree families are still shy to hug each other or say I love you. Is intergenerational trauma a lasting curse?

Canada wanted to bury this chapter quickly. But the prime minister’s apology should’ve done more to acknowledge the harm to our children, our parents and grandparents. The schools not only harmed individuals but entire villages for generations. Reconciliation is about facing Indigenous hard truths with no expiration dates.

I’m lucky I’m back home in Waswanipi. With the help of Cree elders, I unlearned residential school habits and stopped running. They showed me a path with a destiny, instilled in me our ancestors’ fighting spirit.

I’ve found myself now, who I am, where I’m from, where I belong, who my people are. And a love of life will stay with me for the rest of my days. I tried hard to gain their trust, earn back my rightful place among my ancestors. I want my grandchildren and those of other survivors to know what to cherish — what to fight for in life.

Nothing comes on a silver platter. Take freedom back with both hands.

We were created here long before Canada. You can’t find Cree dialect by crossing oceans. Our land is our life, our compass. Our ancestors were sure of this, so must we. No one can take away what’s in our hearts. There’s power far beyond the ugly past that can heal us. Cree legends must live on so dreams will never die.

Governments and churches have long protected themselves. With their original sins, churches still hide records and owe millions. Their schools, a perfect place for criminal acts. Indians lost their children there — some lost the only child they had. Many took horrific secrets to their graves; no one believed an Indian child over a priest in a country that said it had an Indian problem.

Thanks to luck and courage, some lived to tell part of the story. But Canada never promised it would not happen again. I will make peace with the past, but it’s not over. I’m still trying to pull out the knife that’s through my heart.

Support is available for anyone affected by their experience at residential schools or by the latest reports.

A national Indian Residential School Crisis Line has been set up to provide support for former students and those affected. People can access emotional and crisis referral services by calling the 24-hour national crisis line: 1-866-925-4419.

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