The commission delving into the sordid legacy of Canada's Indian residential schools was wrapping up nearly four years of public hearings Sunday, where thousands of victims recounted stories of cruelty and abuse at the hands of those entrusted with their care.
The heart-breaking accounts — almost all videotaped — will now form part of a lasting record of one of the darkest chapters in the country's history.
For many, being able to tell their stories was at once cathartic and a validation.
"Many times, I was hearing my own story being told in front of me and that became very emotionally challenging because I need to deal with that personally," Chief Willie Littlechild, a commissioner and himself a residential school survivor, told The Canadian Press.
"At the same time, I think it helped on my own healing journey."
Vicki Crowchild, 80, of the Tsuu T'ina Nation outside Calgary, Alberta, who attended a school as a child, agreed that the opportunity to talk of her past after her abuser told her no one would ever believe her was hugely beneficial.
"A lot of people got healed just by telling their story," Crowchild said.
Now, it would take more than two years to play back the more than 6,500 statements — they range in length from 10 minutes to five hours — survivors gave the commission.
About 150,000 First Nations, Inuit and Metis children were taken from their families and forced to attend the church-run schools over much of the last century. The last school, outside Regina, closed in 1996.
During the hearings the Catholic Church, which operated the majority of residential schools, apologized formally for the second time for the abuses that occurred.
The children, the commission heard, were sent hundreds or thousands of kilometres from home. Many were kept largely isolated from their families, sometimes for years.
Siblings were separated and punished for showing any affection to one another. Survivors talked of constant hunger, of beatings and whippings, of sexual abuse. Many died of disease or unexplained causes. Some killed themselves.
The damage done to those who did survive was often lasting.
"When I came out of residential school, when they finally shut it down, I went back into a community that was 95 per cent alcoholics," said Martha Marsden, who attended a school in Alberta.
"That is how our parents were dealing with children being taken out of their care, being ripped out of their arms." - Quite literally!
As part of a class-action lawsuit settlement reached in 2007, the federal government apologized for the schools and set up the $60-million commission. The mandate was to create as complete an historical record as possible of the system and its legacy.
The commission has frequently found itself at loggerheads with the federal government.
Some of the battles have ended up in court, with various judges castigating Ottawa for failing to turn over records.
Just this past week, Stan Loutit, grand chief of Mushkegowuk Council, urged Justice Minister Peter MacKay to fire government lawyers for fighting to withhold records related to the notorious St. Anne's residential school in Fort Albany, Ont.
Sinclair himself complained a few days ago that Ottawa would be cutting a program aimed at helping survivors of the system to heal.
Still, the end of the hearings — which wrapped up with a four-day event in Edmonton attended by thousands — marked another beginning, said Littlechild, a former member of Parliament.
"It's really a start of reconciliation," he said.
Calvin Bruneau, of the Papaschase First Nation in Alberta, said he, too, looked to some lasting goodwill emerging from the inquiry into the painful residential-school legacy.
"I am hoping it leads to better all-around relations between First Nations people and the government," said Bruneau, whose grandmother was abused at a residential school.
The commission has been given until the end of June 2015 to report.
One child's story from St. Anne's:
Edmund Metatawabin, 66, is one of several survivors pushing for the government to release documents they say would corroborate their claims of abuse.
His own story is like so many others, but also unique. He is a success story in Fort Albany.
But when he was seven, he had no idea what was in store for him.
In 1956, succumbing to pressure from Catholic priests, Metatawabin's father dropped him off at St. Anne's. He was the first of 10 siblings to attend the school.
He went in with his father and was sent to the bathroom while his father talked with the nun. And then he heard a door close.
Welcome to St Anne's
"I looked out the little window and saw my dad walking by, head down, looking really sad," said Metatawabin in an interview with CBC News. "I hear, 'Come out of there, that's enough, your daddy's not here to protect you no more!' As soon as I opened the door, she grabbed my shoulder, gave me a vicious slap across the face from behind. And I hit the wall on the other side."
That was Metatawabin's first impression of St. Anne's.
He says students were hit, by hand or with objects, for the smallest of infractions, or for no reason at all. And it only got worse.
One day he wasn't feeling very well. "For breakfast you got a bowl of porridge as usual. I felt sicker and sicker and finally I threw up into my porridge. And I was told go upstairs and go to bed. I was there for three days."
"On the morning of the fourth day … we're now in the dining room for breakfast. And everybody is getting their bowl of porridge except me. And then I hear the sister and she came behind me … and said 'Here, finish that. You didn't finish it last time.' And I looked at that and knew what was in there. I could see it, but I had to eat it. There was no choice."
Entertainment at St Anne's
Metatawabin says a home-made electric chair at the school was used for both punishment and entertainment.
He remembers that at seven years old, his feet didn't even touch the floor while seated in the chair.
"There was a metal handle on both sides you have to hold on to," he said. "And there were brothers and sisters sitting around in the boys' room. And of course the boys were all lined up. And somebody turned the power on and you can't let go once the power goes on. You can't let go."
"And my feet were flying in front of me and I heard laughter. The nuns and the brothers were all laughing. Thought it was funny that my feet were flying around, I guess."
Metatawabin says anyone who tried to resist the abuse was doubly punished.
He didn't question why they were treated the way they were. It was the only school he knew.
Metatawabin was there for eight years.
But his summers back at home, on the land with his father, were a respite he treasured.
"And one of his stories is that I would never be a trapper or a hunter. That my life would be with a pencil."
His father was right. Metatawabin went to high school in Kirkland Lake, where despite being too afraid to speak in class, he succeeded because of athletics.
"I learned to run. Long distance, cross country. Because I could beat the guys who were teasing me. So my body did the talking. That was my saving grace there."
He went on to university and was working on his masters degree when he was summoned back to Fort Albany to be chief.
During his 10 years as chief, he organized a conference for St. Anne's Residential School survivors in 1992. He saw the suffering of people in his community and thought it was time they told their stories.
Those horrific accounts formed the basis of a five-year provincial police investigation.
Out of that came trials and several convictions of former staff and supervisors, including the nun who made Metatawabin eat his own vomit.
Survivors say it is those police and court documents that will help back up their claims for compensation under the residential settlement agreement.
At first, the federal government said that it had no obligation to get those documents for the claims process, but it turned out the government had possessed them since 2003.
Metatawabin says he's tired of getting the runaround.
"All we want is justice," he said. "All we want is movement that will make me feel 'Oh, finally it's over. Finally it's over. They believe me.'"
The heart-breaking accounts — almost all videotaped — will now form part of a lasting record of one of the darkest chapters in the country's history.
For many, being able to tell their stories was at once cathartic and a validation.
 |
| The Truth and Reconciliation Commission, under Justice Murray Sinclair, visited more than 300 communities after hearings began in Winnipeg in June 2010. |
"Many times, I was hearing my own story being told in front of me and that became very emotionally challenging because I need to deal with that personally," Chief Willie Littlechild, a commissioner and himself a residential school survivor, told The Canadian Press.
"At the same time, I think it helped on my own healing journey."
Vicki Crowchild, 80, of the Tsuu T'ina Nation outside Calgary, Alberta, who attended a school as a child, agreed that the opportunity to talk of her past after her abuser told her no one would ever believe her was hugely beneficial.
"A lot of people got healed just by telling their story," Crowchild said.
Now, it would take more than two years to play back the more than 6,500 statements — they range in length from 10 minutes to five hours — survivors gave the commission.
About 150,000 First Nations, Inuit and Metis children were taken from their families and forced to attend the church-run schools over much of the last century. The last school, outside Regina, closed in 1996.
During the hearings the Catholic Church, which operated the majority of residential schools, apologized formally for the second time for the abuses that occurred.
The children, the commission heard, were sent hundreds or thousands of kilometres from home. Many were kept largely isolated from their families, sometimes for years.
Siblings were separated and punished for showing any affection to one another. Survivors talked of constant hunger, of beatings and whippings, of sexual abuse. Many died of disease or unexplained causes. Some killed themselves.
 |
| The Truth and Reconciliation gatherings have allowed many survivors of the residential school system to publicly tell their stories for the first time |
The damage done to those who did survive was often lasting.
"When I came out of residential school, when they finally shut it down, I went back into a community that was 95 per cent alcoholics," said Martha Marsden, who attended a school in Alberta.
"That is how our parents were dealing with children being taken out of their care, being ripped out of their arms." - Quite literally!
As part of a class-action lawsuit settlement reached in 2007, the federal government apologized for the schools and set up the $60-million commission. The mandate was to create as complete an historical record as possible of the system and its legacy.
The commission has frequently found itself at loggerheads with the federal government.
Some of the battles have ended up in court, with various judges castigating Ottawa for failing to turn over records.
Just this past week, Stan Loutit, grand chief of Mushkegowuk Council, urged Justice Minister Peter MacKay to fire government lawyers for fighting to withhold records related to the notorious St. Anne's residential school in Fort Albany, Ont.
Sinclair himself complained a few days ago that Ottawa would be cutting a program aimed at helping survivors of the system to heal.
Still, the end of the hearings — which wrapped up with a four-day event in Edmonton attended by thousands — marked another beginning, said Littlechild, a former member of Parliament.
"It's really a start of reconciliation," he said.
Calvin Bruneau, of the Papaschase First Nation in Alberta, said he, too, looked to some lasting goodwill emerging from the inquiry into the painful residential-school legacy.
"I am hoping it leads to better all-around relations between First Nations people and the government," said Bruneau, whose grandmother was abused at a residential school.
The commission has been given until the end of June 2015 to report.
One child's story from St. Anne's:
Edmund Metatawabin, 66, is one of several survivors pushing for the government to release documents they say would corroborate their claims of abuse.
His own story is like so many others, but also unique. He is a success story in Fort Albany.
 |
| Edmund Metatawabin, St. Anne's Residential School survivor |
In 1956, succumbing to pressure from Catholic priests, Metatawabin's father dropped him off at St. Anne's. He was the first of 10 siblings to attend the school.
He went in with his father and was sent to the bathroom while his father talked with the nun. And then he heard a door close.
Welcome to St Anne's
"I looked out the little window and saw my dad walking by, head down, looking really sad," said Metatawabin in an interview with CBC News. "I hear, 'Come out of there, that's enough, your daddy's not here to protect you no more!' As soon as I opened the door, she grabbed my shoulder, gave me a vicious slap across the face from behind. And I hit the wall on the other side."
That was Metatawabin's first impression of St. Anne's.
He says students were hit, by hand or with objects, for the smallest of infractions, or for no reason at all. And it only got worse.
One day he wasn't feeling very well. "For breakfast you got a bowl of porridge as usual. I felt sicker and sicker and finally I threw up into my porridge. And I was told go upstairs and go to bed. I was there for three days."
"On the morning of the fourth day … we're now in the dining room for breakfast. And everybody is getting their bowl of porridge except me. And then I hear the sister and she came behind me … and said 'Here, finish that. You didn't finish it last time.' And I looked at that and knew what was in there. I could see it, but I had to eat it. There was no choice."
Entertainment at St Anne's
Metatawabin says a home-made electric chair at the school was used for both punishment and entertainment.
He remembers that at seven years old, his feet didn't even touch the floor while seated in the chair.
"There was a metal handle on both sides you have to hold on to," he said. "And there were brothers and sisters sitting around in the boys' room. And of course the boys were all lined up. And somebody turned the power on and you can't let go once the power goes on. You can't let go."
"And my feet were flying in front of me and I heard laughter. The nuns and the brothers were all laughing. Thought it was funny that my feet were flying around, I guess."
Metatawabin says anyone who tried to resist the abuse was doubly punished.
He didn't question why they were treated the way they were. It was the only school he knew.
Metatawabin was there for eight years.
But his summers back at home, on the land with his father, were a respite he treasured.
"And one of his stories is that I would never be a trapper or a hunter. That my life would be with a pencil."
His father was right. Metatawabin went to high school in Kirkland Lake, where despite being too afraid to speak in class, he succeeded because of athletics.
"I learned to run. Long distance, cross country. Because I could beat the guys who were teasing me. So my body did the talking. That was my saving grace there."
He went on to university and was working on his masters degree when he was summoned back to Fort Albany to be chief.
During his 10 years as chief, he organized a conference for St. Anne's Residential School survivors in 1992. He saw the suffering of people in his community and thought it was time they told their stories.
Those horrific accounts formed the basis of a five-year provincial police investigation.
Out of that came trials and several convictions of former staff and supervisors, including the nun who made Metatawabin eat his own vomit.
Survivors say it is those police and court documents that will help back up their claims for compensation under the residential settlement agreement.
At first, the federal government said that it had no obligation to get those documents for the claims process, but it turned out the government had possessed them since 2003.
Metatawabin says he's tired of getting the runaround.
"All we want is justice," he said. "All we want is movement that will make me feel 'Oh, finally it's over. Finally it's over. They believe me.'"
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