My kids approaching the Vimy Monument
I’ve been holidaying in Europe with the family this month – England, France and soon to Estonia. I haven’t been blogging, just soaking things up and relaxing.
But today the kids and I went to Vimy Ridge and it kind of keeps with the theme of some of the reconciliation posts I made here last month.
It is said that Vimy Ridge was the event that defined the young Nation of Canada, which was only 50 years old when 100,000 of it’s men, women and children (yes many many soldiers were under age) assembled on the slopes of Vimy Ridge and launched the first battle in the Arras Offensive in April 1917, a battle that would lead to the stalemate being broken and the eventual victory for the Allied forces a year and a half later.
Almost 3600 Canadians were killed and another 7000 or so wounded that morning. That is nothing compared to the losses of 150,000 French and Moroccan forces that tried to take and hold the ridge in the years prior to 1917. But for Canada, that was and still is, the greatest single loss of life in a day of military action.
Much is made of Vimy, especially these days when Canada’s military role has now fully evolved from peacekeeper to combat again. Vimy is often evoked to draw on Canadian sentiment to gather support for our military campaigns overseas. As we approach the 100th anniversary of that battle, I expect the sentiment to be further reinforced, especially by politicians.
But here is the thing. You simply have to visit Vimy to really understand this: if Vimy defined the kind of nation we are then it is a nuanced and complicated thing. For our greatest ever battle was not celebrated by a triumphalist monument declaring our greatness (in fact a staue stomping a German helmet was rejected in the design), but rather a huge sombre memorial to the costs of war, and the responsibilities of peace. There is simply nothing to celebrate at Vimy Ridge. If you were to read into what Canada is by attending that site you will see the kind of country Canada is: brutal and unrelenting in its pursuit of a military (or colonial) objective, but capable of deep reflection almost immediately afterward. Perhaps it was because Vimy was not a final victory, but simply a small part of a much much larger effort that the commemoration there is as sombre and reflective as it is. Or perhaps it was just an acknowledgement that war is a steaming pile of horror often for unclear objectives or far distant motives of power and politics divorced from the sacrifice that actual soldiers suffer. Our current government parrots this same pattern, championing new military actions, while ignoring the needs of veterans who return from these wars physically and emotionally scarred for life.
The monument itself consists of a number of important figures with names like Sympathy of the Canadians for the Helpless, The Spirit of Sacrifice, The Breaking of the Sword, Canada Bereft and The Mourning Parents. Inscribed on the eastern side of the monument are the names of Canadian soldiers whose remains were never found. The monument itself stands at the site of the objective of the battle and for several hundred meters to the west, the ground is still chewed up with craters and trenches, off limits because there is still unexploded ordinance in there, along with the bones of hundreds of human beings, blown to pieces in the battle. It is a place alive with suffering, terror and death. There is nothing beautiful about it, except perhaps for the birdsong, or the flock of sheep that graze the craters or the pines trees that lean upward towards the ridge top, appearing out of the corner of ones eye like some many soldiers charging for the top.
It is a place that is deeply moving and powerful and it does say something about the kind of country we can choose to be. For I wonder if we have ever really enacted the spirit of Vimy Ridge. Of course we are a country that is a small player in the military world, but when we fight we are ruthless. But we are also a country whose defining battle resulted in a reflection on our care for the helpless, on the practice of sacrifice, on the breaking of swords, on the deep mourning of what has happened in the name of Canada, and of the care for those who have lost children. In this way, Vimy says something about our national need to reflect and reconcile our actions with a morality that is lost in violence. I wonder if we have actually done that. I wonder if we can see this as an invitation to practice these principles in an ongoing way. I wonder if in the spirit of Vimy Ridge, if we are living up to the ideals that are emblazoned in that massive marble statue on top of a lonely escarpment in Pas-de-Calais.
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?
From a piece of unsolicited email I got this morning comes an absolutely exquisite piece of writing. I’m sure this makes sense in some contexts, but it is reason number one why you should not have your all star business analyst write marketing copy:
How’s this for a conference centre?
Last week, we hosted a group of 35 emerging and legacy leaders in the human services sector on Bowen Island to kick off our sixth Leadership 2020 cohort. Hosting the group on Bowen Island is a powerful way to begin and end this ten month program, and there is tremendous value offered by hosting it on Bowen Island.
We are a small island with a working village and we have evolved an inventive way of hosting gatherings. We call it “Village as a Venue” a name coined by my friend Tim Merry to describe the way he hosts gatherings in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia. This is a way to reimagine the local economy of small villages who can compete in unorthodox ways with larger venues in nearby cities for conference and meeting business.
On Bowen Island, our village as a venue model starts with one of the retreat centres on island We use the Bowen Island Lodge mostly for our work (and sometimes we host at Rivendell and Xenia as well). The Lodge is ideal because it is set up to host groups (as opposed to acting like a hotel), it is right on the water, and is only a five minute walk from the ferry dock and the village, meaning that people can actually arrive using public transit from anywhere in Vancouver. It is located in a neighbourhood so we keep a careful eye on our noise levels at night, but if people want to socialize in a rowdy way, there are pubs nearby. The Lodge is also perfect in that it is not a high end retreat facility, and it provides an incredibly affordable and accessible venue to accommodate and host people. It has shared rooms and shared washrooms, but the beds are comfortable and when we are there we have the whole space to work in. Overflow registrants are housed at the Lodge at the Old Dorm and other local B&Bs.
The Bowen Island Lodge is a dry rental, meaning that they don’t have their own catering staff. This means that we get to hire local friends to provide us with food. Usually we have our events catered by The Snug which is a little cafe that has always punched above it’s weight in terms of quality. Over the years, both The Snug and the Sam Trethewy, the manager at the lodge have come to appreciate to people we bring to Bowen, who are often social workers and others on the front lines of human services. They treat them well, with good food and sensitive hosting which makes for a superior experience for people.
Spreading the joy further, we always schedule a night out at Rustique, where our friend Thierry Morbach cooks us up a rural French feast. We book the whole restaurant for this, and it becomes a raucous and memorable dinner. On other nights we will head up to the pub for drinks (this past week a group of 15 or so invaded on a Tuesday night, which is no small boost to Glen’s business on a January night). On the Thursday night we usually have a celebration at the Lodge which necessitates folks walking up to the Beer and Wine Store for supplies.
During the day, we give people a couple of hours at lunch to be hosted on the island. Many folks end up going to the village to walk around, buy chocolate and meet folks. They get to see our village for what it is, a friendly working commercial centre. It is not set up to attract tourist dollars, and my friend Edward Wachtman and his partner Sheree Johnson has just completed a study that shows that tourists are looking for something other than that tourist experiences that are sold in many other small towns on the coast. What they find on Bowen is authentic community. They notice the way we look after each other, the way people talk and discuss issues. They often head out for early morning walks or runs on the nearby trails and stop in at The Snug and get to see a community as it is. I hear story after story of these encounters and we often talk about the friendliness of the village and what it says about leadership and community. What happens on Bowen becomes a living teaching for how it is possible to live and work together, and visitors SEE that.
And finally, we use the island itself to host. Bowen is a beautiful place and to get there you need to cross three miles of water. this is an almost archetypal journey, and it marks a thresh hold to a different experience. When you arrive you are received in Snug Cove, and when you leave again, it is as if you are birthed back out into the world. While on the island, we often take people out on the land, to experience the serene calm of the place and to spend time in reflection about their lives. There are so few places in the modern world, especially in the social services sector, where people can just slow down and reflect and pause, surrounded by forest and water and ravens and deer. It becomes transformative, which is the point. Edward’s survey revealed that this is a primary reason why people come to Bowen Island.
We are in a loose conversation with friends in Mahone Bay and in Ballyvaughn, Co. Clare in Ireland about this concept. In Ballyvaughn a group called The Burren Call has set up to host gatherings at the Burren College of Art and on the land around it as well. This pattern is repeating and it takes these places of beauty and transformative potential and leverages what we already have to provide experiences for vistors that also benefit us locals, both financially (and especially in the off-season) as well as psychologically. There is nothing nquite like having your place seen through the eyes of visitors and reflected back.
For Bowen that reflection is that we have a special place, a beautiful natural setting, a friendly and welcoming community and an authentic working village. Locals are always curious about what our visitors are up to and Piers at The Snug or Paul Ricketts at the Beer and Wine Store are always curious and, its fair to say, appreciative of the folks who are “in that workshop with Chris and Caitlin.”
Village as a Venue holds a lot of promise for villages like ours. Having run more than 30 events on Bowen like this, I think we have hit a stride in bringing people over for 3, 4 and 5 days. It is the unique and quirky local character of our community and the beauty of the land and seas that makes this possible. These are strong assets and contribute to the visitor experience of renewal, restoration and serenity.
Not so much hair anymore
Yesterday I had my first haircut in 24 years.
Since 1990 I have kept my hair in a braid that was probably 18 inches long, for all kinds of reasons. Yesterday, for all kinds of reasons, it was time for that braid to come off.
It’s been a bit of a conversation on my facebook page and folks here on Bowen Island are starting to get a look at my new head. News travels fast in small communities.
And commonly I am asked, does it feel lighter? And surprisingly, the answer is no.
Because when you chop off your hair that you have grown for 24 years, you do a lot of work before hand, and I would say close to three years of work went into this decision. It involved me asking myself some fundamental questions about who I am and where I am and what matters to me and how I choose to present my identity in the world. It was not an easy decision, and it took me all that time to think about it and work with it from many different angles.
But I didn’t engage in that work so that I could chop off my hair. I engaged in it because that is what we do as middle aged men in this culture. In your mid forties (I am 46) you have enough distance from both your past and projected future to think about what’s up. Questions of identity and meaning, both personal and professional present themselves. If you have a good practice and good and supportive friends, crossing this thresh hold is made easier. It has largely been easy so far, with no major crises other than some occasional dark and sad times.
So the truth is that much has already been chopped away in my life over the last three years, but nearly none of it has resulted in a change to my outward appearance. Cutting my hair yesterday was not the act that shed a lot of stuff, it was an act born of a new lightness. A little tender, but stable enough that it felt right to cut my hair.
Someone asked me why I chose yesterday to do this. My reply was that, because January 27, 2015 was the day I was ready to do it.
Shortly you will see another shift born of this lightness. My website is being totally redesigned as well. Same great resources, same old blog. Fancy new wrapper. Coming soon.