[0:13]Hi everyone. Nice to see everybody out here. Before I begin, I want to be clear that when I speak of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls, that I'm speaking as an ally and not as an Indigenous person. And I can't refer to this subject without first providing historical context. How did we get here? I want you to imagine being trapped inside a body that could not speak. Imagine that all around you things are happening to you. People are talking. There's lots of activity, but you can't participate. And imagine this world as a young Indigenous girl, too frequently raised by broken, angry adults. Coping with their own issues with PTSD from childhood trauma, mental illness, drugs, addiction, and violence. She exists as a fearful observer of the world around her. Watching others succeed, go to school, and obtain good careers. This world is our Canada. This is the legacy that we have created for Indigenous peoples. Living far from services, programs, and recreational opportunities that many of us will take for granted, some girls from Indigenous communities, particularly remote ones, have few options other than to figure out how to escape. Shouldn't every person have the right to speak and be heard, to fully engage with the world and develop their own natural gifts and abilities? Instead, the legacy of Canadian Canada's treatment of Indigenous peoples has resulted in their being entombed inside silent bodies. Silent in that they're prohibited from fully engaging in a self-fulfilled life just by virtue of the culture into which they were born. It is undeniable that institutional and individual racism, sexism, poverty, addiction, insecure housing, and lack of economic opportunities increase Indigenous women's vulnerability to violence. This is inherently unfair. We have shattered generations of adults through the actions of successive governments, governments who thought that they knew better, but they were wrong. Now, some context about me and why this fight fuels me. I'm the product of a Polish father and a Scottish mother, so I guess you could say a rebellious streak was bred right into my bones. My life would have been a lot easier and our house a lot more peaceful if my father could have gone back to the time when girls were seen and not heard. The Scottish part of me, however, would have none of this. The battle lines were drawn early in our house, and Dad and I were digging in our heels on many an issue. The contest of wills sharpened my sense of justice in ways that were somewhat silent to me until the field of politics. I could not then, and I will not now, ever accept that girls and women should be treated any differently than boys and men. The heightened sense of justice and fairness for all, existing deep within my being often came out blazing when I was working in a constituency office in Kingston. Helping someone who had fallen through the cracks, through no fault of their own, and then going to bat for them against conservative government, became my passion. I get you, you understand why. So, thank you, Dad. I decided to run for office after that, following my heart and my desire to improve people's lives and became the member of provincial Parliament for Kingston and the Islands in June of 2014. The first official event that I went to was held in Market Square in Kingston on June 21st, the day now referred to as National Indigenous People's Day. Among those making presentations were representatives of the Native Women's Association of Canada, who had launched the faceless dolls project the year before. It was the first time that I had the opportunity to view the panels of faceless dolls, and looking at the rows upon rows upon rows of dolls, absolutely took my breath away. But remember the context. You can pass by the panels and experience a deeply challenging issue that's reflected in a somber art display. Or you can really take in the enormity of it all, understanding that every doll is faceless because the women and girls they depict are gone. Their cases remain unsolved, and they remain practically forgotten by society at large. We can feel to the very depth of our being that each of those dolls, each of those statistics, is representative of a mother, daughter, sister, aunt, or cousin. And looking at the faceless dolls, we can feel the pain of family members, like Nicole's mother, Eleanor, who lives right here in Kingston and is with us this evening. She still waits for her phone to ring, with a clue or news that someone has been charged in her daughter's death. Many family members live in hope that the ringing phone will mean that a loved one has finally come home or the news that no one wants, that a body has been found. This is the daily reality that these families face. A reality represented in each one of those dolls. I knew as I stood in Market Square that day that my journey in politics, at least to some extent, was being cast. I resolved to do everything in my power to affect some much needed change and justice for Indigenous people. We know the stark picture painted by the statistics. You've probably heard them before, 16% of female homicides are Indigenous women and girls. This is astonishing when you consider that Indigenous women only make up 4% of the entire national female population. I know, right? Context. Indigenous women are seven times as likely to be disproportionately affected by all forms of violence, 12 times more likely to be murdered and missing than other women, 16 times more likely to be murdered than Caucasian women, and three times more likely to be sexually assaulted than non-Indigenous women. How do we communicate the context behind those sad statistics? Following that event in Market Square, I borrowed the four panels of the Native Women's Association and brought them on tour in Kingston to increase the awareness on this tragic subject.
[8:00]I took the panels to high schools and to religious communities and and I was really surprised to learn how little was known about missing and murdered Indigenous women. These visits were emotionally overwhelming for all who were present. The most riveting and challenging conversation that I had during my visit was to the Islamic Center of Kingston. A young boy of about ten years old of age was in attendance. And I was torn when I saw him, I didn't know if I should sanitize the conversation for him. Should I make it age appropriate or continue as I had throughout the tour, informing as many people as possible about the horrendous statistics? I decided to push on. The stark numbers attached to this dark subject filled the mosque, while my heart kept going out to that ten-year-old boy. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? When I concluded, he raised his hand to ask a question. He wanted to know why we couldn't do something to set up a buddy system within our community so that if a woman needed help, somebody would go and get her. Beautiful. He not only got it, but he offered a solution, out of the mouths of babes. He also got the context of the situation that it is unacceptable. The woman clearly had to be protected, plain and simple. We know the danger that exists for Indigenous women, but it is not just the responsibility of any one person, agency, or organization to look out for them. The solution is up to all of us. We have to work together with Indigenous people to get it right. Remember the legacy that I spoke of when I first began this talk, which resulted in the fracturing of family relationships and the enormous challenges created as a result. There's little wonder that some Indigenous women seek refuge by leaving their home and family environment. They attempt to escape is can be such a toxic situation as well and become a nightmare of addiction to drugs, alcohol, or worse. In his work, The Scream, part of the historical context, uh, goes back to and gave rise to this legacy of despair, and it's captured beautifully by the work of the artist, Kent Monkman. In his work entitled The Scream, there's a port there's a portrayal of the pain and anguish. That's been inflicted on Indigenous peoples as families and communities are irreparably torn apart, the result of a government-sanctioned policy designed to take the Indian out of the child. I was once present when a child was apprehended by the CAS, and I can tell you that no matter what the underlying circumstances are, that moment absolutely ripped my heart out. Imagine being present when not one child is being taken, but a whole village. Compounding this tragedy was the fact that no one knew the abuse that those children would suffer with many more, many of them never returning home. During my service as the parliamentary assistant to the Minister of Indigenous Relations and Reconciliation, I had the opportunity to travel to Chapleau, Ontario for the signing of a tripartite treaty agreement between the province of Ontario, the government of Canada, and the Chapleau Cree band. While on route to the signing ceremony, our hosts asked if I wanted to see where the St. James Residential School had been located, and I said yes. As we travel along the razor straight highway, they pointed out to the site where the school had been, now just a clearing of well-kept moan grass with a thick, ominous forest standing behind it as a backdrop. Then they asked if I wanted to see the school's cemetery. You heard me right, the school's cemetery. We pulled over, got out of the car, and came to the wrought iron fence and plaque marking the spot. We went through the gate and down a little hill and around a corner. No piece of land on which I have stood through all my years on this earth spoke to me as poignantly as did that piece of land. It was as if each little grave was a gaping wound in the earth, and it filled my chest with a sickening, raw, and shameful grief. The place was stifling with an acrid emotion. It was hard to be there. What I found most disturbing was where the cemetery was situated. Caretakers of those sweet little innocent children chose a spot concealed from public view, away from the road, down a ravine, and out of sight to bury the dead. Their students. Round stone markers, outlined the small bodies buried in shallow graves. Some graves had a more formal stone, but not many. A canoe located in the cemetery symbolized paddling the star journey from Earth to heaven. The words inscribed on the paddle inside the canoe read as follows. May the warm winds blow gently on your canoe paddles. May the moccasins of your small feet make happy tracks. And may the rainbow always touch your shoulders. We can no more make Indigenous people in our own image than we can reverse time and undo the damage that we inflicted upon them. What we can do is make it incumbent upon each and every one of us to discern and discover our own way to reconcile with Indigenous people through working together with them in order to keep Indigenous women and children safe. The sad legacy is clear. We smothered the smudges, silenced the drums, the songs, the traditional languages. We stifled the dance, and worst of all, we ripped children from their mothers' arms. We can take bold steps to create a new legacy of hope, healing the wounds of history, and not resting until every Canadian truly understands and accepts the concepts of reconciliation in their hearts and in their minds. We need to accept the historical wrongs that were committed in order that this relationship may be renewed for generations to come. Building a legacy of hope cannot be contained in a one-time act or simply declared within the observance of a nationally recognized single day. True reconciliation, the real work needed to mitigate further tragedy in the lives of Indigenous women, girls and their families is a generational commitment. The context we need to create for ourselves is that we become unfailingly familiar with the vulnerable around us, beginning right at our front doorstep. It will mean something different for each of us, but a starting point, become familiar with the 231 calls for justice enumerated in the 2019 Federal Report and adopt one, two, five, or as many as you can. It's imperative that we prioritize the safety of Indigenous women and girls, uncovering the systemic and social causes that make them more vulnerable to violence. Each one of us can and must play a role. Justice Murray Sinclair's statement describes the mission before us and the heart of the legacy we hope to build and that we're called on to build. And he said, starting now, we all have an opportunity to show leadership, courage, conviction, in helping heal the wounds of the past. As we make a path towards a more just, more fair, and more loving country. The subject of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls no no longer need be a footnote in Canadian history. It needs to be the title until we can stem the tide of new cases. And it's important because it speaks to who we are as a nation. We need to build the Canada that we want for the future, and we must tolerate nothing less. The time is now. Thank you so much. Mercy buckle. make a good job.
